A 


T  HO  MA  S 


THE  ]  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE  PRISON  SHIPS  AND 
OTHER  POEMS 

THE     PILGRIM    KINGS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

THOMAS  WALSH 

AUTHOR  or 

"THE  PRISON  SHIPS  AND  OTHER  POEMS," 
"THE  PILGRIM  KINGS  AND  OTHER  POEMS,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

LONDON:   JOHN   LANE,   THE  BODLEY  HEAD 

MCMXVIII 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 


AS 


TO 

MY  BROTHER 
EDWARD  MARIS  WALSH 


SOS110 


For  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  these 
poems  the  author's  thanks  are  due  to  the 
courtesy  of  the  Editors  of  Scribner's  Magazine, 
House  and  Garden,  the  New  York  Sun,  the 
Boston  Transcript,  Munsey's  Magazine,  The 
Independent,  Lippincott's  Magazine,  The  New 
Orleans  Times-Democrat,  The  Ave  Maria,  The 
Catholic  World,  The  Poetry  Review,  The  Smart 
Set,  The  Bellman  and  The  Bookman. 


CONTENTS 

GARDENS  OVERSEAS 13 

MOONRISE  ON  MANHATTAN     ....  16 

THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 20 

THE  BELLS  OF  RONCEVAUX     ....  22 

SAINT  FRANCIS  TO  THE  BIRDS       ...  24 

THE  STIGMATA 27 

THE  TEMPLES    .  29 

OUR  LITTLE  HOUSE 30 

WHEN  THE  BIRD  SINGS      .     .     ...  31 

IN  THE  MUSHROOM  MEADOWS      ...  32 

HORACE:  VITAS  HINNUELO  ME  SIMILIS  33 

THE  BREED  OF  WOE 34 

DRIFTS 36 

To  A  SENORITA  OF  SOUTH  AMERICA  .     .  37 

CANTIGA 39 

AFTER  GRIEF 40 

WITH  THE  AIR-FLEETS 42 

ARISEN 43 

ONE  NIGHT 44 

THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  KINGS       ....  46 
vii 


CONTENTS 

NM| 

CHRYSANTHEMUMS  .......  49 

PINDAR  AND  CORINNA 50 

AQUARELLE  AFTER  WATTEAU       .     .     .  53 

CARAVAN  SONG 54 

To  A  DANCER  OF  TANAGRA     ....  55 

CANTILENA 57 

ON  THE  LUTES  OF  FRANCE      ....  58 

ON  THE  LATIN- AM  ERIC  AN  HARP  .     .    ...  61 

To  A  FRIEND  IN  DEATH 63 

EYES 66 

HYMN  TO  AURORA 67 

A  CREOLE  TRIPTYCH 69 

"ALL  THE  BEASTS  OF  THE  FOREST"  .     .  72 

IN  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  ROSE     ...  75 

THE  POPE  OF  THE  HILLS 76 

THE  VISION  OF  LOUKIANOS,  THE  ARME 
NIAN    79 

AFTER  "LES  CYDALISES"  OF  GERARD  DE 

NERVAL 81 

THE  VISION  OF  FRA  ANGELICO     ...  82 

ON  THE  RUINS  OF  ROME 84 

THE  HARBOR  FOG  .     .     .     .  '  1  '   .     .  86 

STARS  ON  THE  WATER 88 

To  DANTE  IN  RAVENNA — 1265-1915       .  90 

ON  His  FIRST  BIRTHDAY   .     .     .     .     .  92 


CONTENTS 

FACE 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  TAGUS     .     .     .  94 

THREE  VOICES 99 

AT  MEMORY'S  CASEMENT 101 

ALHAMBRA  SONGS 102 

I   The  Dream  of  Alahmar 
II   In  the  Booth  of  the  Story-Teller 

III  The  Night  of  Almond  Blossoms 

IV  Zoraya 

V  The  Market  Place 
VI  The  Caravan 

SUNDOWN • .     .  116 

THE  CHARIOTEER'S  GRAVE     ....  117 

AFTER  RAINFALL     .     .     .     *.     .     .     .  118 

PASTORALE  AFTER  MENDELSOHN       .     .  119 

STABAT  MATER  SPECIOSA 121 

CASTLES 125 

THE  ATONEMENT  OF  FERODACH  THE  KING  1 26 

To  A  YOUNG  POET 129 

A  GRANNY 131 

BALLADE  FOR  THE  SIXTH  HOUR    .     .     .  133 

To  AN  IRISH  TERRIER 135 

APRIL  TWENTY-THIRD 136 

Quis  DESIDERIO 138 

QUATRAINS    ..........  140 

MOTHER  MOST  POWERFUL      ....  142 


CONTENTS  x 

PAGE 

THE  EMBERS  SPEAK 144 

FRIAR    LAURENCE    O'FARRELL. — LONG 
FORD,  1651 145 

IN  A  GARDEN  OF  GRANADA      .     .     »     .  148 

ZAPHNA  OF  BATUSHKOFF    .....  150 

THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  KINGS      ....  153 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 

THE  gardens  overseas  are  sweeter — 
The  roof-tree  learned  it  of  the  wind; 
The  poppies  owned  to  blasts  unkind; 
The  sand  stretched  white  as  the  surge  that 

beat  her. 

We  shall  away  ere  the  clouds  grow  fleeter, 
Dear  brow  of  the  large  grey  eyes,  and 

find 
The  gardens  overseas  are  sweeter  I 

But  vain  might  Hope  or  Song  entreat  her, 
Or  golden  rose;  she  smiled,  she  pined! 
Oh,  was  my  love  so  poor  and  blind 
It  had  at  last  no  voice  to  greet  her, — 
"The  gardens  overseas  are  sweeter!" 

August,  1910. 

In    gardens    overseas, — oh,    God,    what 

flowers 

Are  strewn  along  the  paths  and  foun 
tain-place  ! 

13 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 

What  blood-drenched  roses,  what  white 

charnel  trace 

Among  the  lily-fields  that  once  were  ours  I 
What    vulture-nightingale    would    haunt 

these  bowers! 

What  noisome  reek  and  odour  foul  dis 
grace, 
In   gardens   overseas,    oh,    God,   what 

flowers ! 
Hate  through  the  realms  of  Love  usurps 

the  powers. 
The  groans,  the  women's  shrieks  the 

winds  efface 

In  the  night's  hollow  where  the  cess 
pools  race! 

Blessed  art  thou,  to  sleep  away  such  hours 
In    gardens   overseas!    Oh,    God, — what 
flowers ! — 

August,  1917. 

In  gardens  overseas  strange  ghosts  are 
playing 

Among  the  children,  waving  spirit 
wands 

To  guide  their  gambols  'mid  the  flower- 
lands. 


GARDENS  OVERSEAS 

Upon  the  benches  loving  wraiths  delaying 
Clasp  their  frail  arms,  the  secrets  old  half- 
saying; 

The  widows  feel  a  kiss  upon  their  bands ; 
In  gardens  overseas,  strange  ghosts  are 

playing— 
The   mothers  mark   a   radiant   Stranger 

straying 
With  light  upon  His  wounds  of  feet  and 

hands : 
"Forbid  them  not  to  come" — He  smiles 

and  stands ; 
Whilst  thou,  Beloved,  in  thy  smooth  grave 

staying, 

In  gardens  overseas,  strange  ghosts  are 
playing— 

August,  1918. 


MOONRISE  ON  MANHATTAN 

OUT  in  the  harbour,  silence  and  the  moon 

Beyond  the  City's  roar; 

There  screened  from  bluster  of  the  sea 

The  skies  and  waters  strewn 

With  stars  in  outlawry 

Conspire    against   the    splendour    of   the 
shore. 

For  sheer  the  golden  crags  and  pinnacles 

Lift  'gainst  the  wave  such  fretted  pagean 
try 

As  ne'er  Golconda's  legend  tells, 

Nor  Aztec  crater  poured 

In  yellow  answer  to  the  sun  its  lord. 

Here  hive  the  golden  bees 

In  their  sky-shouldering  cells; 

Here  'gainst  some  promised  dawn 

From  out  their  phosphorescent  seas 

The  stars  have  laid  their  spawn. 

How  like  a  pigmy's  dreams 

Their  El  Dorado  seems ! 
16 


MOONRISE  ON  MANHATTAN 

With  what  poor  madness  drawn 

Old  Nero  put  his  torch  to  Rome, 

Knowing  not  spire  or  dome 

Liquid  with  gold  like  these 

That  lift  restoring  nipples  to  the  skies 

To  nurse  the  Pleiades ! 

And  thou,  O  moon,  that  bearst  thy  silver 

urn 
So   far   from   thine   old  temple   hills   of 

Greece, 

Upon  what  ancient  paths  of  peace 
Would'st  think  thou  to  arise? 
By  what  memorial  empurpled  seas 
And  columned  Parthenon 
Wouldst  thou — so  strange — return? 
The  moss  is  over  Delphi's  architrave 
That  once  thou  lookedst  serene  upon; 
Thine  Ephesus  is  but  a  grave; 
To  naught  have  come  thy  Babylon, 
Thine  Athens,  Latium,  and  Byzance, 
Thy  Salamis,  thine  Ascalon! — 
Long  ages  down 
Upon  the  lily  spires  of  France 
Thine   eye   beheld   the   surge   of  Gothic 

shrines 
Like  crowns  of  thorn  on  field  and  town; 


MOONRISE  ON  MANHATTAN 

Forgotten  were  thy  Delphian  pyres, 

Thy  sacrificial  wines — 

Forgotten  in  the  vehement  travail 

Wherein  man  sought  thee  as  a  Holy  Grail, 

The  consecration  of  his  heart's  desires. 

Oh,  come  not  here  as  on  some  slavish  night 

At  Carthage;  shed  no  gleams 

Of  witchcraft  from  Toledo's  blight; 

Forego   thine   ancient  domes   and  mossy 

towers 

By  ghostly  streams, 
Thy  siren  haunts  upon  the  deeps; — 
Look  down,   renewed  upon  these  newer 

bowers 

Where  cloaked  in  gold  Manhattan  sleeps ! 
Despite  thy  beauty  and  thy  might 
Here  still  is  fever  unassuaged; 
Behind  our  towers  and  chimneys  caged 
Are  hearts  that  languish  in  the  night. 
Be  thou  to  them  both  monstrance  and  pure 

host, 
Their   souls'   refreshment;   be   the   silver 

coin 

The  homeless  beggar  folds  unto  his  breast, 
Counting  him   richer   than   old   Croesus' 

boast; 

18 


MOONRISE  ON  MANHATTAN 

Be  them  the  mask  of  Pierrot  dressed, 
The  starry  carnival  to  join! 
Proclaim  thou  here 

A  newer  gospel  ere  the  dawn  comes  o'er, 
A  newer  hope  for  hearts  morose  and  sere, 
A  newer  song,  a  newer  ointment  pour 
In  coronation  on  Manhattan's  shore. 
For  Louis  H.  Wetmore. 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

IN  my  heart  is  the  sound  of  drums 

And  the  sweep  of  the  bugles  calling; 

The  day  of  the  Great  Adventure  comes, 
And  the  tramp  of  feet  is  falling,  falling, 

Ominous  falling,  everywhere, 

By  street  and  lane,  by  field  and  square, — 
To  answer  the  Voice  appalling! 

One  by  one  they  have  put  down 

The  tool,  the  pen,  and  the  racquet; 
One  by  one  they  have  donned  the  brown 
And  the  blue,  the  knapsack  and  jacket; 
With  a  smile  for  the  friend  of  a  happier 

day, 
With  a  kiss  for  the  love  that  would  bid 

them  to  stay, — 
They  are  off  by  the  train  and  packet. 

What   fate,   what   star,   what   sun,  what 

field, 

What  sea  shall  know  their  daring? 
20 


THE  GREAT  ADVENTURE 

Shall  the  baitle-reek  or  the  dead  calm  yield 
Their  wreaths  that  are  preparing? 

Shall  they  merely  stand  and  wait  the  call  ? 

Shall  they  hear  it,  rush  and  slay  and  fall? 
What  matter? — their  swords  are  bar 
ing! 

We  stand  in  the  crowds  that  see  them  go — 
We  who  are  old  and  weak,  unready, — 

We  see  the  red  blood  destined  to  flow 
Flushing  their  cheeks,  as  with  footstep 
steady, 

With  a  tramp  and  a  tramp  they  file  along, 

Our  brave,  our  true,  our  young,  our  strong, 
And  the  fever  burns  us  fierce  and  heady. 

With  God,  then  forth,  by  sea  and  land, 
To  your  Adventure  beyond  story; 

No  Argonaut,  no  Crusader  band 

Ere  passed  with  such  exceeding  glory; 

Though  ye  seek  fields  both  strange  and 
far, 

Ye  are  at  home  where  heroes  are ! 

Such  is  the  prayer  we  send  your  star, — 
We  who  are  weak  and  old  and  hoary. 


21 


THE  BELLS  OF  RONCEVAUX 

You  can  hear  them  as  you  go 

While  the  mules  creep  higher,  higher 
Where  the  torrents  overflow 

And  each  summit  lifts  a  spire ; 

Through    the    vales    you    hear    them 
soaring 

In  a  silvery  chant  adoring — 
Hark,  the  bells  of  Roncevaux! 

Lone  the  proud  old  abbey  stands 
Dreaming  over  lost  Navarre; 

Stony  lie  the  folded  hands. 
Stony  gaze  by  lamp  and  star 

They  who  lit  the  world  of  story 

With  the  soul's  first  glint  of  glory — 
'Neath  the  bells  of  Roncevaux. 

Knightly  comrades,  row  on  row 

In  their  mountain  shrine,  forgotten 

By  their  feudal  towns  below, — 

There  they  lie — Fame's  first-begotten — 
22 


THE  BELLS  OF  RONCEVAUX 

Helms  collapsed  and  hauberks  rust — 
Dust  where  all  the  stars  are  dust — 
Round  the  bells  of  Roncevaux. 

Through  our  hearts  their  visions  steal 
Out  of  ancient  midnights  telling 

How  they  woke  the  Christmas  peal, 
How  their  Easter  chimes  went  swelling 

Through  the  springtime  morns  of  old 

Ere  the  world  was  deaf  and  cold 
To  the  bells  of  Roncevaux. 


SAINT  FRANCIS   TO   THE   BIRDS 

BIRDS, — birds  of  the  air, — 

Glad  wings  of  the  mountain  and  valley 

Flashing  around  me  with  scatter  of  petals 

and  rally 
Through     ilex     and     olive     in     carnival 

choir ! — 

Draw  near,  little  sisters,  and  hearken 
My  voice  of  desire! 
See  where  the  valleys  would  darken; 
Draw  nearer,  and  list  my  prayer 
To  the  Love  that  hath  given 
Your  pinions  the  realms  nearest  heaven, 
Bladed  your  wing 
To  parry  with  rain  and  with  hail, 
Decked  you  for  tempests  in  feathery  mail 
And  taught  you  to  sing ! 
Though  but  the  worm  of  His  wounds  1 

implore 
You  and  cross  you  and  bless  you,  with 

hand  and  with  mouth — 
Signing  North  unto  South, 
24 


SAINT  FRANCIS  TO  THE  BIRDS 

Signing  West  unto  East, — 

Let  His  praise  be  increased! 

To    the    North   then,    ye    wings    of   the 

snow, — 
Albatross,    gull,    and    all    nurselings    of 

waters  at  war! 
To  the  South,  ye  with  emerald  plumage 

aglow 
For  the  grace  of  His  Orient  temples  and 

bear 
His  comforting  Love  to  the  moon-stricken 

rose! 

To  the  East,  O  ye  larks,  from  your  foun 
tains 

To  gather  His  alms  at  morn's  lattices  pale ! 
Owls  to  your  tombs  and  your  belfries! — 

O  Nightingale, 
Away   to   your   sobbing   of    an   empire's 

woes! 

But,  eagle  wings,  ye  to  the  West  unroll ! — 
Vanguards    celestial,    chanting    o'er    the 

mountains  I 
Fowls  of  the  deeps,  be  ye  contemplative 

there 
At   sundown   on  His  mirrors  vast  with 

prayer, 


SAINT  FRANCIS  TO  THE  BIRDS 

Praising  His  Love  that  keeps  us  to  His 

soul  I 
Warn    ye    the    shepherds,    swallows,    at 

moonrise  then — 
Swinging  like  living  censers  out  from  eave 

and  rafter, — 
And  circling  doves — Nay,   Brother  Leo, 

hold  not  back  "Amen," — 
Lest  all  my  heart  go  winging  madly  after, 
Forgetful  of  the  little  worm  and  mole  1 


THE  STIGMATA 

SILENT  the  mountain;  on  the  plains  below 
The  morning  broke  in  silent  waves  afar ; 
And  in  the  heart  of  Francis,  late  aglow 
With  prayer  and  passion,  silence  like  a 

star. 

For  there  had  passed  an  angel  in  the  night 

Bearing  to  heaven  his  last  surrender  up : 

"Useless  and  worthless  am  I  in  His  sight, 

But  yet  His  servant!"  He  had  drained 

the  cup 

Of  ultimate  sacrifice,  when  sudden  shone 
An  orb  spread  sunlike  on  the  morning 

skies; 

Nearer  it  flashed  and  nearer — Seraph-Son 
Of  God,  wast  Thou  Thyself  revealed 

unto  his  eyes? 
The    six    great   wings    spread   cross-wise 

round  the  form 

Of  Christ  upon  the  Tree  before  him 
bent; 

27 


THE  STIGMATA 

There  was  a  voice  celestial,  sounding  warm 

Secrets  of  heaven  unto  his  soul  attent. 
There   was   the    glory    and   the    anguish 

twined 
On  those  immortal  brows;  while  darts 

of  fire 

From  hands  and  feet  and  side  on  his  in 
clined, 
Meeting  halfway  the  urge  of  his  desire. 

His  side — ah,  torment  mixed  with  joy! — 

what  wound 
Of  love  has  pierced?     Through  either 

hand  there  goes 
A    hallowed,     grievous    nail;    unto    the 

ground 
His  feet  are  clenched  as  with  Love's 

iron  blows. 
So  were  his  hands  God-sealed,  and  so  his 

feet 

Imprinted  on  God's  way,  and  so  his  side 
Laid  open  blooming  in  Love's  fire-heat, — 
That  to  the  little  griefs  of  earth  he  died. 
For  John  J.  Donlan,  Ph.D. 


THE    TEMPLES 

THAT  Solomon  the  Wise  King  might  be 
hold, 

The  autumn  hills  raised  high  their  brows 
of  gold; 

He,  boasting,  cried  as  from  his  wars  he 
trod, 

"My  shrine  shall  shame  ye  in  the  eyes  of 
God!" 

But  scarce  his  hoary  lips  released  the  word 
When  from  the  heights  the  wind's  deep 

voice  was  heard; 
The  bannered  forests  roared,   and  from 

their  place 
Swept  the  dead  leaves  in  scorn  against  his 

face. 


OUR  LITTLE  HOUSE 

OUR  little  house  upon  the  hill 

In  winter  time  is  strangely  still; 

The  rooftree,  bare  of  leaves,  stands  high, 

A  candelabrum  for  the  sky, 

And  down  below  the  lamplights  glow, 

And  ours  makes  answer  o'er  the  snow. 

Our  little  house  upon  the  hill 
In  summer  time  strange  voices  fill; 
With  ceaseless  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  birds  that  twitter  in  the  eaves, 
And  all  the  vines  entangled  so 
The  village  lights  no  longer  show. 

Our  little  house  upon  the  hill 
Is  just  the  house  of  Jack  and  Jill, 
And  whether  showing  or  unseen, 
Hid  behind  its  leafy  screen; 
There's  a  star  that  points  it  out 
When  the  lamp  lights  are  in  doubt. 
30 


WHEN  THE  BIRD  SINGS 

WHEN  the  bird  sings,  and  the  morning 
Through  the  meadow  makes  reply, 

Who  shall  hear  a  note  of  warning 
In  such  gladness  from  the  sky? 

All  the  wildwood  laughs  with  childhood 
When  the  bird  sings  sweet  and  high. 

When  the  bird  sings  in  the  gloaming 
And  the  fond  hands  hush  the  keys, 

Oh,  the  wings  of  love  are  homing 
To  that  music  from  the  trees. 

Hear  ye,  hear  ye,  hearts  aweary, 

When   the  bird   sings   on  the  'breeze. 

When  the  bird  sings  down  the  river 
Where  the  willows  bathe  in  gold 

As  the  autumn  moon  a-shiver 

Shows  thy  pathway  lone  and  cold- — 

Oh,  may  God  thy  heart  deliver 
When  the  bird  sings  as  of  old  I 

31 


IN  THE  MUSHROOM  MEADOWS 

SUN  on  the  dewy  grasslands  where  late  the 

frost  hath  shone, 
And  lo,  what  elfin  cities  are  these  we  come 

upon! 
What  pigmy  domes  and  thatches,  what 

Arab  caravan, 
What  downy-roofed  pagodas   that   have 

known  no  touch  of  man ! 
Are  these  the  oldtime  meadows?  Yes,  the 

wildgrape  scents  the  air; 
The  breath  of  ripened  orchards  still  is 

incense  everywhere; 
Yet  do  these  dawn-encampments  bring  the 

lurking  memories 
Of  Egypt  and  of  Burma  and  the  shores  of 

China  Seas. 


HORACE:  VITAS  HINNULEO  ME 
SIMILIS 

WHY,  Chloe,  like  a  timid  hind 

Upon  the  rugged  mountains  flying 
At  every  motion  of  the  wind 

Affrighted  to  its  mother  hieing, — 

Why  dost  avoid  me? 
If  but  the  tender  branches  move 

Upon  the  zephyr  gently  swaying, 
Should  lizard  rustle  in  the  grove, — 
Through   all  thy   form,   see,  terror 

playing ! 

No  lion,  I,  from  Afric's  clime; 
No  tiger  from  the  jungle's  cover. 
Leave  then  thy  mother;  it  is  time 

That  thou  shouldst  own  a  lover. 


33 


THE  BREED  OF  WOE 
After  the  Spanish  of  Luis  Montoto 

Now  whither  go  ye  ? — Would  that  we  did 

know 
But  who  can  trace  the  leaves  at  midnight 

torn 
From  off  the  storm-swept  branches  as  they 

go 

Upon    the    mighty   tempest's   path    of 
scorn  ? 

And  where  abide  ye? — In  the  refuse  heap, 
Our  walls   and   rafters   rotting   in   the 

dust, — 

Dust  watered  only  by  the  tears  we  weep, — 
Tears  bitter  with  our  need  and  broken 
trust. 

Had  ye  no  father? — Yea,  he  dreamt  of 

fame 

And  scorned  the  thrifty  hoardings  of 
the  heart, 

34 


THE  BREED  OF  WOE 

He  whom  the  midnight  fever  overcame 
To  sit,  his  brows  with  laurel  crowned, 
apart. 

What  seek  ye  now? — His  legacy  decreed, 
The  dreamer's  treasure  buried  in  the 
sod; 

We  are  the  children  of  the  poet's  breed, — 
Refuse  us  not  an  alms,  for  love  of  God. 


35 


DRIFTS 

WITH  drifts  of  bloom  on  the  hills, 

And  drift  of  clouds  and  snow, 
And  autumn's  leaves,  and  the  rills', 
And  ocean's  ceaseless  flow, 

Old  earth  was  swung  into  space 
In  the  whirl  of  wind  and  star; 

The  sunlight  drifts  o'er  her  face, 
And  the  moonlight  follows  afar. 

It  was  so  your  young  love  came 
And  passed  through  my  heart  on 
its  way, 

And  as  flame  is  drawn  after  flame 
My  soul  after  yours  must  stray; 

And  ever  amid  the  great  wheel 
Of  the  stars  and  the  winds  and  the 

years, 

Together  our  spirits  shall  steal 
Through  the  drifts  of  smiles  and 
tears. 

36 


TO  A  SEtfORITA  OF  SOUTH 
AMERICA 

You  have  the  loveliness  of  far-off  hills; 
Yours  is  the  charm  of  near  familiar 

things ; 
Under  your  skin  of  golden  Spain  there 

spills 

Red  blood  from  Inca  and  from  Quichua 
springs. 

Within  your  hair  soft  shadows  make  their 

home, 

Still  mindful  of  their  Orinoco  glades; 
Spain's  ancient  diadem  is  but  your  comb ; 
Your    cheeks'    camelia   blossom   never 
fades. 

Your  neck  is  as  the  cobra's  in  its  grace; 
Pearls  rise  and  fall  at  home  upon  your 

breast; 

There  is  white  slumber  in  your  arms'  em 
brace; 

Your  heart  is  the  volcano  lain  to  rest. 
37 


TO  A  SENORITA 

You  walk  to  music  of  some  vanished  court; 
Your  ankle  crushes  down  the  neck  of 

kings ; 
The  condor's  feather  makes  your  fan  in 

sport ; 

Your   rosary   of   gold   outshines   your 
rings. 

By  turns  an  Inca  goddess  brave,  or  saint 
Of  cloistered  eyes,  you  love  in  fire  and 

fear, 
Finding  us  as  the  mountain   snows  that 

faint 

Beneath  the  sun,  yet  faithful  year  on 
year. 


CANTIGA 

After  the  Spanish   of  Manrique,    1440- 
1479 

LET  him  whose  time  hath  come  to  go 
Put  never  faith  where  he  must  part; 
Forgetfulness  and  change  of  heart 

Are  penalties  the  absent  know. 

You  would  be  loved — a  lover  you  ? — 
Then  pay  your  court  incessant  there, 
For  hardly  are  you  vanished  ere 

Remembrance  goes  as  lightly  too. 

Be  done  with  idle  hope,  and  start 

Let  him,  whose  time  hath  come  to  go; 

Forgetfulness  and  change  of  heart 
Are  penalties  the  absent  know. 


39 


AFTER  GRIEF 

AT  first  when  thou  wert  gone,  thy  memory 
Bade  song  away  from  out  my  heart  and 

thought ; 
But  now  the  faintest  echoings  of  thee 

Unlock  my  soul  to  melodies  unsought — 
Strange  floods  of  utmost  rapture,  utmost 

pain, 

That  hush  in  music  but  to  wake  again — 
As  though  the  earth  grown  fertile  under 

sighs 
Gave  bloom  unto  some  noontide  of  the 

skies. 

Perchance  'twas  silence  came  to  weed  the 

heart 
Of  selfish  woes  that  choked  its  fount 

of  songs? — 
Perchance  the  scars  of  grief,  now  healing, 

part 

Like  lips  to  join  with  joy's   seraphic 
throngs  ? — 

40 


AFTER  GRIEF 

Not  for  decline  of  pain,  but  for  pure  woe 
Transcending  flesh  as  bards  and  prophets 

know! 

'Twas  fear  and  silence  held  my  soul  in  fee 
The  more  my  hope  and  singing,  am  I  free. 


WITH  THE  AIR-FLEETS 

WE  swing  to  the  ultimate  offing, — 

But  our  anchor  is  dug  in  a  star; 
The  while  the  black  squads  of  the  scoffing 

Go  battling  afar 
To  The  Infinite, — such  is  their  boasting — 

His  riddle  to  read, — 
As  urchins  the  precipice  coasting — 

To  face  Him  indeed. 
See  them  pass! — like  the  flocking  of  ra 
vens  1 

Do  they  reach  unto  Godhead? — Who 

knows? 
From  out  of  their  spaces  or  havens 

No  signals  disclose! 
But  the  star  pulls  hard  at  our  cable, — * 

Shall  we  loose  on  their  track? 
Or  leave  them  to  madness  and  fable, 

And  homeward  draw  back? 


ARISEN 

AT  every  tomb  an  angel; 

A  flower  in  every  sod; 
And  surge  of  banners  white  ascending 

From  each  heart-grief  unto  God; 

"While  nightingale  whose  sorrows 
Filled  ruined  fane  and  grove 

Becomes  a  very  lark  to  sprinkle 
Earth  with  songs  of  joy  and  love. 

"He  is  not  here  but  risen!" — > 

O  little  rose,  how  vain 
To  sob  it  down  your  dewy  trellis 

Hiding  in  your  thorns  of  pain ! — 

"He  is  not  here  but  risen!" — 

Ye  lily  choirs  give  voice 
Unto  the  seraph  hills;  bid  ocean, 
Cloud  and  strand  rejoice,  rejoice! 


43 


ONE  NIGHT 

After  the  Spanish  of  Juan  Ramon  Jimenes 

THE  ancient  spiders  with  a  flutter  spread 
Their  misty  marvels  through  the  with 
ered  flowers ; 
The  windows  by  the  moonlight  pierced 

would  shed 

Their  trembling  garlands  pale  across 
the  bowers. 

The  balconies  looked  over  to  the  south ; 

The  night  was  one  immortal  and  serene ; 
From  fields  afar  the  newborn  springtime's 

mouth 

Wafted  a  breath  of  sweetness  o'er  the 
scene. 

How  silent! — Grief  had  hushed  its  spec 
tral  moan 

Among  the  shadowy  roses  of  the  sward  $ 
44 


ONE  NIGHT 

Love  was  a  fable — shadows  overthrown 
Trooped  back  in  myriads  from  obliv 
ion's  ward. 

The  garden's  voice  was  all — empires  had 

died — 
The    azure    stars,    in   languor   having 

known 

The  sorrows  all  the  centuries  provide, 
With  silver  crowned  me  there  remote 
and  lone. 


45 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  KINGS 

Two  monarchs  of  the  Cymry  on  a  hill 
Taunted  each  other  in  the  moon's  clear 

light, 
"Behold  where  stretch  my  fertile  fields 

afar!" 
Exclaimed  King  Nynio.    "Where?"  asked 

Peibio. 
"There  in  the  reaches  of  the  skies!"    And 

then 
King  Peibio  turned  and  said,  "Look  you 

what  flocks 
Of  kine  and  sheep  are  mine  that  graze 

thereon!" 
"Where?"  asked  King  Nynio.     "There, 

the  host  of  stars 
In  golden  brightness  with  their  shepherd 

moon!" 
"They  shall  not  graze  my  field!"   cried 

Nynio. 

46 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  KINGS 

"I  say  they  shall !"  said  Peibio.  With  that 
They  drew  their  swords  and  hacked  and 

harried  there 

With  all  their  people  at  their  backs,  until 
King  Rhita  Gawr  of  Wales  and  Ireland 

came 
And    conquered   both   and   shaved   their 

beards  away. 

Then  in  their  anger  rose  the  score  and  ten 
Of  Prydain's  king  to  avenge  this  burning 

sore 

Of  shame  on  Rhita ;  each  in  turn  was  met 
And  vanquished  and  his  beard  was  taken 

off. 
Then  all  the  kings  of  mountain  and  of 

plain 
Came    out    against    King    Rhita's    giant 

power; 

But  all  were  beaten,  shorn  and  put  away. 
Thus  waxing  great  King  Rhita  wove  a 

cloak 
Wondrous    and    rare    of    all    the    royal 

beards; 

Then  sent  his  messengers  to  Arthur  King 
Of  Wales  to  ask  his  beard  to  deck  the  col 
lar  piece, 

47 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  KINGS 

Else  both  his  head  and  beard  should  he 

require. 
And  Arthur  met  him  out  on  Snowden's 

Mount, 
And  cleft  his  skull,  and  bore  the  cloak 

away. 


48 


CHRYSANTHEMUMS 

SHAGGY-HEADED  urchins  from  the  gardens'" 

of  Japan 
Now  are  down  our  autumn  pathways  in 

a  rough-and-tumble  playing, — 
Motley    little    rioters    with    caps    and 

brooms  and  banners  swaying 
On  the  blustery  weirs  and  hills,  a  raga 
muffin  clan ! 

Woe  unto  the  palaces  of  summer  sacked 

and  blown  I 
Not  a  thicket,  lane  or  highway  but  their 

scattered  spoils  are  twining! 
Goths   are  at  our  trellised   porches — 
through  our  gardens  comets  signing 
Doom  of  blast  and  frost  and  snowdrift 
on  the  summer's  throne  1 


PINDAR  AND  CORINNA 

"CoRiNNA,  Hail  the  Victress!     Evoae!" 
The   call  of  feasting  down   from  Tana- 

gra. — 

"Corinna  I  Evoae !" — by  twilight  hills 
And  river  and  the  fume  of  altar  flames, 
With  the  great  call  of  music,  where  glad 

youths 
Twining  like  garlands,  on  their  rhythmic 

steps, 

Bear  her,  new-crowned,  along  the  shout 
ing  walls 
And  out  between   the   vineyards   to   her 

home. 
Five  times  the  victor's  crown  had  pressed 

those  brows 
Whose    beauty    sculptured    into    marble 

shone 

Already  in  the  Muses'  shrines ; — five  times 
Had  she,  breasting  her  lyre  beneath  the 

gold 

50 


PINDAR  AND  CORINNA 

Of  hair  unfilleted,  struck  forth  her  songs 
Of  home,  of  love,  of  old  familiar  names — 
Dreams  such  as  humble-hearted  mothers 

know, 

Echoes  of  little  lanes  and  woodside  shrines. 
Then  the  vast  festal  throngs  reached  forth 

to  her 

Lovingly,  gladly,  and  for  memory's  sake 
Forgot  the  mighty  singing  and  the  art 
Of  oldtime  Greece,  forgot  the  rules,  for 
got 
Their  glorious  past,  in  joyance  of  their 

home. 

And  now  a  dark  indignant  figure  paced 
The  shadows  towards  Thebes;  alone  he 

went  * 
High  Pindar,  who  had  lost — he  Lord  of 

Song — 

The  prize  to  her  a  woman  of  the  hills. 
Black  rage  was  in  his  heart  with  scorn  of 

men 

And  all  the  littleness  of  life;  half-blind 
He  strode  along  the  rocky  steeps  and  out 
Against  the  threshold  of  the  starry  skies. 
There  night  crept  down  to  welcome  him; 

the  breeze 

51 


PINDAR  AND  CORINNA 

Chill  from  the  outer  seas  would  cool  his 

brows ; 
The  stars  swung  round  him  till  he  raised 

his  head 
Lone  as  some  mountain  peak  beneath  its 

snows, 

And  hatred  died  and  scorn  upon  his  lips 
Melted  to  an  adoring  prayer,  as  calm 
Ethereal   touched   his    soul    awake    with 

smiles. 
For  Charles  L.  O'Donnell,  C.S.C. 


AQUARELLE  AFTER  WATTEAU 

SHEPHERDESS, — nay,  go  not  yet 
While  the  trees  are  dripping  wet 

From  the  rain ! 

Come,  sit  here  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  the  grotto  till  the  leaves 

Dry  again. 

Every  lamb  is  in  the  fold 
Huddled  safely  from  the  cold 

And  the  dews; 

Stay,  the  sun  will  soon  appear 
With  a  smile  to  find  you  here — 

Don't  refuse ! 

See,  the  mists  have  pearled  your  hair 
And  your  hands  are — I  declare  1 

Cold  as  stone  I 

Nay,  'tis  but  my  arm  that  slips 
'Round  your  waist — and  these  my  lips 

'Gainst  your  ownl 


53 


CARAVAN  SONG 

TEARS  for  the  jasmines, — tears  to  slake 

the  roses 

I  bring  thy  garden  through  Love's  des 
ert  sun; 
Lo,  how  with  bloom  and  scent  each  bud 

uncloses ! — 
Lo,  how  my  task  of  tears  is  never  done ! 


54 


TO  A  DANCER  OF  TANAGRA 

AROUND  thee,  barefoot  girl,  there  float 
The   comely  draperies   of  Greece; 

Still  sways  thy  form  as  to  some  note 
Of  childhood  that  can  never  cease. 

Ho,  for  thy  crystal  skies ! — the  throngs 
In  Prosperine's  or  Dion's  rite 

Trailing  the  mountain  towns  with  songs 
And  garlands, — till  again  the  night 

Finds  in  thy  votive  breast  a  flame 
As  on  the  altars.     Hush, — dost  hear 

Thy  lover  whispering  thy  name, 
Corinna, — or  was't  Thelaire? 

Soft  through  the  moonlit  vines  the  flute 
Trills    forth, — and   thou    art    fain   to 
dance, 

Lithe  girl  of  Tanagra.    How  mute 
The  syrinx  that  could  so  entrance ! — 

55 


TO  A  DANCER  OF  TANAGRA 

Now  o'er  our  fireplace  let  no  blast 
Nor  memory  touch  thee  with  regret; 
Dance  on, — frail  terra-cotta  cast, — 
Our  hearts  make  music  yet. 

For  Emma  Willard  Scudder  Keyes. 


CANTILENA 

SPRING  in  young  hearts  sets  tenderness, 

In  old  hearts,  memories; 
And  who  shall  say  what  boon  is  less, — 

Or  happier  who  of  these? — 
With  the  glint,  and  song,  and  flower  among 

The  nests  of  love  and  laughter, — 
Or  with  sigh,  and  scent  of  heart-blooms 
spent, 

And  the  haunting  beauty  after? — 
Spring  from  young  hearts  reaps  tender 
ness, 

From  old  hearts,  memories. 


57 


ON  THE  LUTES  OF  FRANCE 
MANDOLINE 

THEY  sound  their  serenades; 

They  listen  still  and  fair; 
Beneath  the  soft  trees'  shades 

They  speak  the  old  words  there. 

'Tis  Tircis'  voice  I  hear, 
Aminto's  voice  as  well; 

Clitandre  sings  his  dear; 
Damis  his  loves  would  tell. 

Their  silken  waistcoats  tight, 
Their  flowing  robes  in  train, 

Their  elegance  and  light, 

Their  shadow's  soft  blue  stain. 

In  the  extatic  haze 

Of  moonlight  rose  and  pearl 
The  mandolin  still  plays 

Amid  the  breeze's  whirl. 

58 


ON  THE  LUTES  OF  FRANCE 

A  DREAM 

SOME  fair  retirement  where  always 

The  nights  shall  be  serene  and  still — 

With  shadowless  and  shining  days, 
With  songs  to  speak  their  sovereign  will. 

Some  white  old  house  upon  the  heights, 
And    there,    perchance,    some    roguish 
maid 

To  calm  thy  heart  with  her  delights 
Till  every  care  aside  is  laid. — 
A  garden  to  the  winds  displayed, 

Its  terrace  perfumed  with  the  pines — 

Some  books  with  Horace's  fair  lines. 


59 


ON  THE  LUTES  OF  FRANCE 
THE  FAUN 

A  TERRA-COTTA  Faun  grimaces 
Smiling  o'er  his  grassy  places, 
Doubtless  in  his  foresight  keen 
Thinking  on  the  hapless  scene 
Soon  to  mock  this  pause  serene, 
That  hath  led  me  and  hath  led  thee 
In  pilgrim's  doleful  vagrancy 
Unto  this  moment  now,  that  comes 
To  sweep  us  to  the  sound  of  drums. 


60 


ON  THE  LATIN  AMERICAN  HARP 

I 
NIGHTFALL  IN  THE  TROPICS 

After  the  Spanish  of  Ruben  Dario  of 
Nicaragua. 

THERE  is  twilight  grey  and  gloomy 
Where  the  sea  its  velvet  trails; 
Out  across  the  heavens  roomy 
Draw  the  veils. 

Bitter  and  sonorous  rises 

The  complaint  from  out  the  deeps, 
And  the  wave  the  wind  surprises 
Weeps. 

Viols  there  amid  the  gloaming 

Hail  the  sun  that  dies, 
And  the  white  spray  in  its  foaming, 

"Miserere"  sighs. 
61 


ON  THE  LATIN  AMERICAN  HARP 

Harmony  the  heavens  embraces, 
And  the  breeze  is  lifting  free 

To  the  chanting  of  the  races 
Of  the  sea. 

Clarions  of  horizons  calling 
Strike  a  symphony  most  rare, 

As  if  mountain  voices  falling 
Vibrate  there. 

As  though  dread  unseen  were  wak 
ing, 

As  though  awesome  echoes  bore 
On  the  distant  breeze's  quaking 

The  lion's  roar. 


62 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DEATH 

After  the  Spanish  of  Guillermo  Valencia 
of  Colombia 

THOU,  gentle  youth,  wast  rival  in  thy  grace 
And  doom  with  fair  Antinous  of  old, 
Since  thee,  as  well  as  him,  the  waters 

cold 
Snatched  from  great  Hadrian's  imperial 

place. 
How  brief  thine  hours !    How  glooms  thy 

breast  efface ! — 
The   rose   of  Life   fell  leafless  in  thy 

hold; 

At  thy  first  vows  grim  Destiny  unstoled 
Thy    broken    urn    and    spilt    thy    wine 
apace — 

I  would  decipher  through  thy  horoscope 
Glooms   of   unconauerable   night,    and 
mould 

63 


TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DEATH 

Thine   image  with  such  melancholy 

charms 
That  thy  half-troubled  grace  should  learn 

of  hope, 
And  set  thy  memory  'gainst  the  fables 

told 

Of  him  who  perished  in  the  Nile's 
pale  arms. 


II 
SURSUM 

A  PALLID  taper  its  long  prayer  recites 
Before   the    altar,    where    the    censers 

spread 
Their  lifting  clouds,  and  bells  toll  out 

their  dread, 

In  grief's  delirious  sanctuary  rites. 
There — like  the  poor  Assisian — invites 
A  cloistered  form  the  peace  All-Hal 
lowed; 

Against  the  dismal  portals  of  the  dead 
Resting   his   weary  brows    for   heavenly 
flights. 

64 


SURSUM 

Grant  me  the  honey-taste  of  the  Divine; 
Grant  me  the  ancient  parchments'  ruddy 

sign 

Of  holy  psalmody  to  read  and  prize ! 
For  I  would  mount  the  heights  immortal 

crowned, 
Where  the  dark  night  is  'mid  the  glories 

drowned, 
And  gaze  on  God,  into  His  azure  eyes ! 


EYES 

After    the    Spanish    of   Antonio    Gomez 
Restrepo  of  Colombia 

THERE  are  eyes  so  full  of  dreams 
That  they  show  us  scenes  of  yore ; 
Eyes  whose  pensive  glances  pour 

Light  of  other  skies  and  streams; 

Eyes  of  grief  that  nourish  themes 
Dimly  seen,  as  from  the  shore 
Halcyon  wings  that  wander  o'er 

Broken  waves  and  clouded  gleams. 

Eyes  there  be  whose  sorrows  fair 
Teach  oblivion  from  the  skies 

To  the  hearts  whose  cross  is  there; 
Eyes  that  sweet  old  gladness  prize, 

Whose  ethereal  cloudings  bear 
Stars  from  a  lost  Paradise. 


66 


HYMN  TO  AURORA 

After   the   Spanish    of   Julio   Florez    of 
Colombia 

THOU  heavenly  butterfly 

Whose  great  and  tenuous  wings 

Their  gold  and  rose  spread  high; 

Thou  that  in  ample  heaven's  sight 

Over  the  Andes'  mighty  summits  flings 

In  bland  and  radiant  flight!  — 

From  what  far  garden-place, 

O  Butterfly  divine,  dost  race  ? — 
What  heavenly  branch  or  vine 
Gives  thee  sustaining  wine? — 
Perchance  the  gardens  of  the  night 
Strengthened  thy  wings  of  light? — 

What  gleaming  flower  shall  ease 

Thine  infinite  thirst? 
Perchance  the  golden  leas 

Where  heaven's  star-bloo.ns  burst? 
67 


HYMN  TO  AURORA 

Perchance  the  bright  horizons  filled 

With  glorious  rays, 
Where  gold  dust  of  thy  wings  is  spilled 

O'er  seas  and  mountain  ways? — 

Thou  heavenly  butterfly 
Come  on  my  breast  to  lie; 
From  thy  transcendant  sphere 
Seek  out  our  poor  world  here, 
Ere  thee  in  winging  turn 
To  ashes  day  shall  burn  I 


68 


A  CREOLE  TRIPTYCH 

After  the  Spanish  of  Jose  Santos  Chocano 
of  Peru. 

I 
THE  DANDY 

His  shirt  of  silk  and  trappings  show  his 

style; 

A  wave  of  lace  is  bulging  at  his  chest; 

And  at  his  belt  there  is  a  pistol  dressed, 

Shoved  down  at  every  moment's  frown  or 

smile. 
In  his  pyramidal  sombrero,  while 

He  keeps  his  lonely  state,  garbed  in  his 

best, 
And  on  his  lassooed  steed  he  takes  his 

rest, 

His  saddle  makes  the  very  throne  seem 
vile. 


A  CREOLE  TRIPTYCH 

Firmly  he  keeps  his  seat;  crack  goes  his 

whip; 
The  gleaming  spurs  against  the  horse's 

side, 

In  all  his  glory  rides  he  on  his  trip ; 
So  that  you  doubt  if  his  Olympic  form 
Would  show  man's  triumph   o'er  the 

brute's  fierce  pride, 

Or  'tis  some  sculpture  moving  live  and 
warm. 


II 

THE  PLAINSMAN 

IN  his  bronze  face  a  something  sombre 

shows, 
Perhaps    the    effect   of   distances   that 

spread 
In  oceans  of  pure  verdure   round  his 

shed. 
Toiling   he    marks   his    furrow   holdings 

close; 

Beneath  his  kindly  hand  his  harvest  grows; 
He  breaks  his  foal  and  bits  him  where 
he  fed 

70 


A  CREOLE  TRIPTYCH 

Upon  the  plain;  and  by  some  trifle  led, 
Plunges  in  midstream  where  the  torrent 
flows. 

A  single  blow  and  a  great  bull  lies  low ; 

Across  the  thicket  his  machete  tears, 
And  so  to  love  with  singing  does  he  go; 
For  love  of  woman  on  his  spirit  acts, 

And    on    his    savage    nature    radiance 

bears, 
Like  some  light  rainbow  o'er  the  cataracts. 


Ill 
THE  GAUCHO 

HE  is  the  Pampa's  very  own, — a  bit 
Of  her  brave  soil  that  spreads  beneath 

the  sun; 
Wanting  a  savage  steed,  he  bridles  one 

To  herd  his  cattle, — his  the  arm  for  it. 

Then  to  the  sound  of  his  guitar  will  sit 
In  his  beloved's  arms,  his  toiling  done, 
And  pour  an  anguished  chant  to  twirl 
and  run 

Like  his  lassoo,  his  sad  lament  to  fit. 


A  CREOLE  TRIPTYCH 

The  Pampa  is  the  frame  that  bounds  the 

thirst 

The  gaucho  feels  in  his  desire  to  break 
The  weariness  with  which  the  land  seems 

cursed; 
Its  green  monotony  afar  displayed 

Seems  where  some  great  fatigue  its  rest 

would  take, 
Or  reaches  onward  as  a  hope  betrayed. 


72 


"ALL  THE   BEASTS  OF  THE 
FOREST" 

"ALL  the  beasts  of  the  forest 

Do  move  in  the  night" — 
So  the  heart  of  the  dreamer 

Goes  stealthy  and  light 
Through  the  horrors  forgotten, 

Unspoken  of  men — 
The  greed  and  the  vengeance 

Of  mountain  and  fen. 
Yea,  the  dull  heart  disgorges 

The  lecherous  things 
That  day  calls  abortions; 

Sleep  drags  our  vain  wings 
Through  the  realms  of  the  Gorgons, 

Through  blood  and  the  mire 
And  blasphemous  orgy 

And  sweat  of  desire. 
There  is  star-conflagration; 

The  world-crunch ;  the  cry 
Of  the  pine  that  is  stricken; 

The  seas  are  laid  dry ; — 
73 


"THE  BEASTS  OF  THE  FOREST" 

A  revel  of  monsters 

And  demigods  breaks 
Through  a  cloud-tumbled  fastness 

Of  canons  and  lakes. 
They  call  me,  they  sign  me 

In  chaos  of  dreams — 
I  reach  for  your  handclasp — 

How  lifeless  it  seems ! — 
Alone  where  I  smother 

Entranced  in  affright ; 
"All  the  beasts  of  the  forest 

Do  move  in  the  night!" 


IN  THE  KINGDOM  OF  THE  ROSE 

ACROSS  the  kingdom  of  the  rose 
Old  Father  Time  a  pilgrim  goes, 
And  fills  his  scrip  and  bends  his  knee 
At  many  a  roadside  priory 
Of  daffodil  and  fleur-de-lis  — 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  rose. 

Like  a  lighted  shrine  the  orchard  glows 
Down  blosmy  lanes ;  the  lily  shows 

In  the  hillside  sweep  of  lance  and  spear 
That  silver  tournaments  are  near, — 
And  the  poppy's  gipsy  camps  appear 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  rose. 

But  out  of  some  high  country  blows 
A  chiming  sweet  as  Roncevaux's 

To  guide  the  pilgrim  to  his  shrine, — 
To  tell  me  soon  this  heart  of  mine 
With  Love's  own  flower  shall  intertwine 
In  the  kingdom  of  the  rose. 
75 


THE  POPE  OF  THE  HILLS 

NEVER  a  word  will  you  hear  at  Maynooth 
Of  the  pope  they  have  lost;  'tis  a  bit  of 

the  truth 
That  is  whispered  at  noontide  by  dingle 

and  glen 
Mid  the  tangle  of  daisies  when  lasses  and 

men 
Sit  down  from  the  harvest  with  stories  of 

war 
And  of  wonderment  strange  to  the  cities 

afar. 

'Tis  a  secret  avoided  at  wake  and  at  feast 
That  is  under  the  ban  of  the  bishop  and 

priest, 

But  is  hinted  at  slyly  as  sudden  winds  sigh 
In  the  chimney  when  blustery  nights  fill 

the  sky, — 

The  story  how  Patsey  the  lad  became  pope 
And  was  crowned  with  the  crown  and  was 

coped  with  the  cope, 
76 


THE  POPE  OF  THE  HILLS 

How  he  wore  the  great  ring  on  the  back 

of  his  fist. 
And  held  the  white  shoes  on  his  feet  to  be 

kissed; 
But   one   morning  when   springtime   was 

burgeoning  gay 
To  the  notes  of  the  lark  he  was  gathered 

away 

And  over  the  mountains  of  Erin  was  gone 
Through  the  gates  of  the  morning  and 

mists  of  the  dawn. 

Then  a  heavier  loneliness  fell  over  Rome 
And  a  holier  light  lit  the  hillsides  of  home, 
For  it  seemed  in  the  spring  that  the  smile 

of  the  lad 
Down  the  blossomy  trellises  was  to  be 

had; 
That  the  birds  felt  a  stirring  and  sang  in 

their  nest 
When  the  meads  and  sheep-pastures  his 

light  footing  pressed; 
That  the  violet  glanced  with  his  sparkle 

of  blue, 
That  the  light  of  his  hyssop  shone  out  in 

the  dew, 
That  over  the  lover  on  tryst  waiting  there 

77 


THE  POPE  OF  THE  HILLS 

Came  touch  of  his  blessing  on  lips  and  on 

hair. 
There's  many  a  tinker  and  fiddler  could 

say 
Strange  things  of  the  tapers  that  lighted 

their  way; 
Many   a   crone   as   she   drowsed   at   her 

prayers 
Heard  him  chanting  and  blessing  the  still 

vesper  airs; 

But  never  could  any  one  answer  and  tell 
A  word  that  could  lead  to  his  haunt  in  the 

dell, 
When  the  purple  processions  at  twilight 

drew  near 
And   the    cardinals   hunted   and   bishops 

would  hear 
Where  the  young  pope  was  lurking;  none 

ever  could  give 
The  track  where  he  wandered,  the  place 

where  he'd  live, 
Save  over  the  mountains  to  beckon  them 

on 
To  the  gates  of  the  morning  and  mists  of 

the  dawn. 


THE  VISION  OF  LOUKIANOS,  THE 
ARMENIAN 

WHEN  unto  heaven  the  souls  elect  take 

flight 
The  Master  keeps  the  promise  He  hath 

made; 
He  binds  their  brows  with   diadems  of 

light; 

He  decks  their  hands  with  ruby  rings 
and  jade. 

Angels  and  virgins  greet  them  with  their 

songs ; 
The  strings  eternal  glad  them  with  sweet 

sound; 
Like  stars  agleam  they  see  the  saints  in 

throngs 
And  float  with  them  in  ecstasy  profound. 

Upon  this  dream  are  anchored  all  my  joys ; 
Come,  Mother  Mary,  take  me  by  the 
hand 

79 


THE  VISION  OF  LOUKIANOS 

And  lead  me  out  where  heaven  its  bloom 

deploys, — 

So  I  may  breathe  the  perfumes  of  that 
land. 


80 


AFTER  "LES  CYDALISES"  OF  GER 
ARD  DE  NERVAL 

WHERE  now  our  oldtime  lovers? — 
They  sleep  within  the  tomb; 

A  fairer  sky  uncovers 

The  glad  fields  where  they  bloom. 

The  lily-pale  betrothed 

The  loved-one  uncontrite; 
The  child  in  blossom  clothed 

Who  flowered  but  for  the  night. 

Eternity  unclouded 

Grows  winsome  for  their  eyes; 
O  lights  on  earth  now  shrouded, 

Look  down  across  the  skies  I 


THE  VISION  OF  FRA  ANGELICO 

THE  glint  of  seraph  wings  had  stirred  all 

day 
In  sunshine  round  him,  till  in  rapture 

faint 
He  dreamt  an  Angel  came,   and  caught 

away 
His  falling  brushes,  and  began  to  paint. 

Till  swiftly  traced  upon  the  radiant  wall 
Shone  Nazareth's  little  room,  as  when 

the  prayer 
"Hail,  full  of  Grace"  was  uttered  first  of 

all; 

Then  Gabriel's  self,  he  knew,  was  paint 
ing  there. 

But  when  at  twilight  hour  the  Brothers 

came, 

They  saw  a  picture  there  so  strangely 
done 

82 


THE  VISION  OF  FRA  ANGELICO 

That   one    indignant   cried    aloud,    "For 

shame — " 

Whilst  others  veiled  their  eyes  as  from 
the  sun. 

"Nay,  our  Angelico  is  surely  mad," 

The  Prior  mused,  "mere  senseless  stuff 

it  seems." — 

"Ah,  'tis  Our  Lady's  self,"— a  novice  lad 
Exclaimed,  " — 'tis  so  she  smiles  at  me 
in  dreams  1" 

Whereat  the  gentle  master  woke,  and  saw 
How  great  their  trouble  and  their  un 
belief, — 
The  praise  and  quarrelling,  the  shame  and 

awe 

That  stirred  his  Brothers,  and  was  filled 
with  grief; 

And  rising,  took  his  brushes  once  again, 
And  sighed,  and  trembled,  tracing  o'er 

each  line: — 
"Yea,  my  poor  human  hand  must  make  it 

plain  !"- 

And  as  they  looked  all  hailed  the  work 
divine. 

53 


ON  THE  RUINS  OF  ROME 

From   the  Italian   of  C  as  tiff  Hone  t    1478- 
1529 

YE  sovereign  hills,  and  hallowed  disarray 
Where  what  was  Rome  hath  perished 

save  the  name ! 

Alas,  ye  mean  memorials  of  a  fame 
And  mortal  excellence  too  rare  to  stay! 
Column,  and  arch,  and  theatre's  display, 
The  sculptured  pomp,  the  glorious  ac 
claim, — 
How  soon  to  unremembering  dust  you 

came, — 
How  soon  but  fable  for  the  boors  to  say ! 

What  though  a  little  span  your  art  divine 
Did  cope  with  Time, — on  stealthy  step 

and  slow 

He  tracked  you  down,  and  levelled 
with  disdain; 
84 


ON  THE  RUINS  OF  ROME 

Then  let  me  bear  my  longings,  nor  repine, 
Knowing   the   power   that   could   such 

might  o'erthrow 
Can  bring  as  well  the  ending  of  my  pain. 


THE  HARBOUR  FOG 

FOG  in  the  harbour, — sky  and  waterway 
Lost  in  a  phantom  otherworld,  where 

boom 
Of  funnels  and  the  sharp  "Give  room, 

give  room!" 

Of  bells  and  paddles  speak  the  night's  dis 
may. 
Their  sheer,  sky-shouldering  cities  swathed 

in  grey, 
The  crowded  ferries  probe  their  paths 

of  gloom 
Along  the  wharves  of  home,  the  cliffs 

of  doom, 
Like  glowworms  in  a  cobweb  void  astray. 

Hope  in  the  homeward-toiling  hearts,  and 

fear 
But  half-confessed ;  their  pulses  urge, — 

yet  no, 

Some  warning  bell  of  reason  tolls,  "Not 
here 

86 


THE  HARBOUR  FOG 

Is  trust  in  self  enough;  a  higher  guide 
Of  mutual  faith  must  rule  you  as  you  go; 
None    is   self-pilot   on   the   harbour 
tide." 


STARS  on  the  water, — on  my  soul,  thine 

eyes; 
Thus  for  no  sunlight  shall  I  ask,  nor 

dreams 

The  moon  sends  floating  down  by  phan 
tom  streams, 

If  to  the  calm  that  on  my  spirit  lies 
Thy  starlight  come  interpreting  the  skies. 
Yea,  even  at  noontide  have  I  caught  far 

themes 

Celestial  glinting  on  me  like  the  beams 
To  which  by  night  the  troubled  surge  re 
plies. 

Stars  on  the  water,  there  is  twilight  now 
Upon  my  valleys,  and  the  soft  winds 

cease 

And   in   my   heart,    beloved,    there   is 
peace ! 

88 


STARS  ON  THE  WATER 

Lo,  'tis  the  trysting  hour;  unto  thy 

gaze 
I  lift  the  mirror  of  my  soul  and  vow 

To  keep  thy  light  unclouded  through 
the  days. 


89 


TO    DANTE    IN    RAVENNA— 1265- 
19*5 

THERE  in  thy  marble  of  Ravenna, — Dust 
Mightier  than  an  empire's, — art  thou 

stirred 

With  scorn  reverberate  against  the  herd 
That    with    such    contumely    razed    and 

thrust 

Thy  citadels  of  law,  thy  soul's  high  trust, 
Down  to  the  levels  their  mean  hearts 

preferred? — 

Mocking  thy  learning  as  a  scheme  ab 
surd, 

And  striking  from  thy  lyre  but  themes  of 
lust? — - 

Lo,   their  proud  vaunt ! — where   each   is 

priest  and  king, 
And  each  superior  deems  his  race  and 

creed, — 

The   cannon   mouths   their   brother 
hood  of  man! — 
90 


TO  DANTE  IN  RAVENNA 

Thy  pledge  was  Fatherhood;  Time's  sa 
cred  ring 

Of  rights  with  duties,  thy  concordant 
plan; 

Dust  of  Ravenna, — thine  is  scorn  in 
deed! 


ON  HIS  FIRST  BIRTHDAY 
To  A.  L.  K. 

WITH  hopes  so  rich   enladen,  with  thy 

store 
Of  worth  ancestral,  faith,  and  sturdy 

dreams, 
Go,   little  bark  of  manhood,   whither 

streams 

This  life  we  know  to  that  uncharted  shore 
Thy    patent-royal    grants!      Let    cannon 

roar, 
And  pennon  speed  thee   o'er  the  sea 

where  gleams 
A  Whitsun  light  upon  thy  brow  that 

seems 
Anoint  to  rule,  and  conquer,  and  explore. 

Up  with  the  mainsail,   all  our  blessings 

said, 

Alone   beyond    earth's    guidance    must 
thou  fare 

92 


ON  HIS  FIRST  BIRTHDAY 

With  naught  but  wind,  and  star,  and  wave 

ahead; 
Away,  and  whither  thy  firm  helm  can 

bear! 
Be  El   Dorado  thine!     Life's  fountains 

shed 
Eternal  youth  on  all  thy  purpose  there  I 


93 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  TAGUS 

From  the  Spanish  of  Fray  Luis  de  Leon, 
Salamanca,  1528-1591. 

IN  dalliance  Roderic  the  King 

Delayed  with  fair  La  Cava  by  the  side 

Of  Tagus'  gorge,  till  clamouring 
The  river-god  from  out  the  tide 
Emerged,    and    in    a    voice    prophetic 
cried: — 

"Licentious  despot, — would  you  choose 
Such   hour    for   weakness — now   when 

thunders  sound, 

And  trumpetings  of  death  confuse ! — 
When  clash  and  shout  of  Mars  astound 
Our   land,    and    conflagration    spreads 
around ! — 

"Alas,  for  thy  mere  pleasure,  how 

Our  country  groans! — That  lovely  one 

(Oday 

Unhallowed  of  her  birth !)  doth  now 
94 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  TAGUS 

On  Spain  bring  weeping  and  dismay 
To   sweep   the   sceptre   of   the    Goths 
away! 

"Flames,  supplications,  cries  of  war, 
Laments  of  death  and  anguish,  and  dis 
grace, 

That  brief  embrace  is  twining  for! — 
Involving  you  and  all  the  race 
In  shame  the  ages  never  shall  efface  I 

"A  yoke  of  slavery  on  the  lands 

They  till  at  Constantina, — where   the 

stream 

Of  Ebro — where  SanSuena's  strands, 
And  Lusitania's  reach  extreme — 
On  all  the  spacious  Spains, — a  doom 
supreme  I" 

"Hark,  out  of  Cadiz  raging  calls 

Count  Julian's  voice  to  speak  a  father's 

wrongs ! 

No  shame  of  treachery  appals — 
He  conjures  up  avenging  throngs 
To  waste  the  kingdom  that  to  you  be 
longs  ! 

95 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  TAGUS 

"Adown  the  morn  the  trumpet's  throat 
Proclaims  the  doom !  See  on  Morocco's 

shore 

What  thronging  where  his  banners  float 
Upon  the  winds  conspired  to  pour 
So   swift   on  Spain  the    Moslem  con 
queror  I 

"The  cruel  Arab  lifts  his  lance 

And  shakes  the  gleaming  challenge  to 

the  wind; 
Swiftly  his  light  flotillas  dance 

Upon  their  way  of  warfare  blind, — 
I  see  their  numbers  swarming  in  my 
mind  I 

"The  earth  is  hidden  where  they  tread; 
Their  sails  blot  out  the  intervening  sea ; 

Their  clamours   strike  the  heavens  with 

dread; 

The  sun  from  out  the  noon  would  flee 
Before  the  dust-cloud  and  obscurity  1 

"Alas,  how  ardently  their  prows 

Surmount  the  waves  I  What  sinews  bend 
the  oar 

96 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  TAGUS 

As  every  galley  onward  ploughs, 

And  how  the  deeps  must  foam  and  roar 
Where  they  glide  hissing  on  the  Spanish 
shore  I 

"To  Eolus  their  sails  are  given, 

And  over  Hercules'  unguarded  Straits 

Their  sharpened  prows  of  steel  are  driven 
Where  Neptune  the  great  father  waits 
To  grant  them  ingress  by  his  open  gates ! 

"Alas !  poor  wretch,  that  bosom  dear 
Can  still  bewitch  you? — that  you  draw 
no  sword 

When  such  calamities  you  hear, — 
When  even  upon  the  sacred  ford 
Tarifa  falls  already  to  the  horde? 

"Out  in  the  saddle!    Spread  your  wing 
Across  the  mountains!    Spare  not  on 
the  plain 

Your  bloody  spurs !    There  brandishing 
The  goad,  come  thundering  amain 
Upon  them,  Roderic,  with  blade  insane  I 

"But  oh  I  what  travail  now  prepares — 
What  years  of  sweat  and  carnage  are 
ordained 

97 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  THE  TAGUS 

On    him     who     shield    and    breastplate 

bears, — 
On    princelings    who    might    else    have 

reigned, — 
On    horse    and    rider    to    destruction 

chained! 

"Thou,  Stream  of  Betis,  shalt  be  dyed 
With  mingling  blood  of  kinsmen  and  of 

foes! 

Unto  the  sea,  how  soon!  thy  tide 
With  broken  wrack  of  helmets  flows 
And  surge  of  corpses  kingly  in  their 
woes! 

"Five  days  of  blood  infuriate 

The  God  of  War  unloosens  on  the  plains 

Where  meet  the  swarming  hordes  of  hate ; 
The  sixth,  alas!  thy  doom  ordains — 
O  land  beloved — in  barbarian  chains!" 


THREE  VOICES 

Soprano: 

UPON  the  rack  of  love  despised  I  lay 
And  one  at  midnight  came  to  hush  my 

groan 
With — "Patience,  brother,   for  at  break 

of  day 
Thou  shalt  forget" — that  word  wrenched 

bone  from  bone. 

Contralto: 

I  live, — O  God,  my  heart  is  beating  still ! — 
Yea,  this  that  walks  and  eats  and  sleeps, 

is  I! 
What  of  the  light  that  fled  these  ashes 

chill— 

My  soul  of  dreams — ?  I  live  to  see  it 
die. 

Basso : 

To-night  I  weary  of  my  book  of  doubt, 
Its  rhymes  and  sciences  of  sneer  and 
slime ; 

99 


THREE  VOICES 

I  throw  my  casement  wide  where  clear 

shine  out 

God's  seals  still  molten  on  the  scrolls  of 
Time. 


too 


AT  MEMORY'S  CASEMENT 

UPON  the  blossom  branch  in  spring 
There  once  would  come  a  bird  and  sing; 
There  once  would  sound  a  mellow  song 
Around  my  heart  the  whole  night  long. 

Nor  ever  lark  at  break  of  day 
But  took  me  on  its  silvery  way; 
Nor  nightingale  by  star  and  rose 
But  at  my  heart  outpoured  its  woes. 

Till  now,  their  voices  hushed  in  tears, 
With  springtime  passed  adown  the  years, 
My  heart  which  hath  their  message  known 
At  Memory's  casement  sings  alone. 


101 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

I 
THE  DREAM  OF  ALAHMAR 

— "RousE  thee,  Alahmar !"  cried  the  An 
gel's  voice, — 

"Rise,  Monarch  of  Granada,  and  rejoice 

That  all  thy  wanderings  and  warfare 
passed, 

Lo,  to  Alhambra  thou  art  come  at  last! 

Yea,  though  thy  body  be  with  toils  out 
worn — • 

Thy  raiment  tattered — thy  white  beard 
unshorn — 

Though  yet  beside  thee  from  the  last  ad 
vance 

Lie  bloody  shield,  and  scimitar,  and 
lance, — 

Rouse  thee  and  speak  thy  will! — for  I, 
Djabir, 

102 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Whose  holy  prescience  led  thee  year  by 

year 
By  devious  paths  o'er  seas  and  mountain 

ways, 
Through    craft    and   bloodshed — all    for 

Allah's  praise! 

Lo,  I  am  here  to  wait  thy  last  behest ! — " 
Then  spoke  Alahmar:  "Grant  me  but  to 

rest, 

To  rest  this  brain  and  body  waxing  old 
And  soon  to  sink  again  into  the  mould — 
A    place    of    rest,    O    Prince    of    spells, 

Djabi'r, — 

Weave  thou  my  dreams  into  a  palace  here. 
Here  let  its  arches  swing  their  fold  on  fold 
As  on  the  desert  did  our  tents  of  old 
With   fringe   and  blazonment  along  the 

brink 

Of  cool  oases.     Let  us  drowsing  think 
Its  slender  pillars  are  the  palmtrees  frail 
That  gave  us  food  and  shelter  without  fail. 
For  ornament  our  sacred  carpets  use, 
And  tile  the  walls  with  burnished  golds 

and  blues 

And  shimmering  greens  to  match  the  pea 
cock  plumes 

1 03 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

That    trailed    adown    the    royal    garden 

glooms 

Of  proud  Damascus  or  of  Isphahan 
What  time  our  headsmen  through  their 

portals  ran. 

Go,  sack  a  hundred  treasuries  afar 
For  pearls   and  rubies!    Strip   each  rich 

bazaar 

From  Fez  and  Cairo  unto  Hindostan 
Of  lamps  and  weavings !  Track  each  cara 
van 

For  silken  carpets! — till  Alahmar's  halls 
Shall   gleam  like   some   old  capital   that 

falls— 
Throughout  whose  streets  are  treasures 

spilled  and  strewn 
Where  slaves  and  concubines  dishevelled 

swoon, 

And  brows  with  diadems  are  in  the  dust, 
The  while  our  Caliphs  sweeping  like  the 

gust 

Across  the  mountain  forests  gold  and  sere, 
Trample    them    all — so    deck   Alhambra 

here! 
But,  lest  at  length  these  storied  splendours 

pall, 

104 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Range  lordly  gardens  here  as  in  Bengal, 
With  hidden  courts  of  cypress  and  of  rose 
Shading  the  pools  in  tints  as  soft  as  those 
We  marked  of  old  within  beloved  eyes; 
Reaches  of  poppy  whose  red  border  lies 
By  long  canals  reflected;  tiled  retreats 
Of  fig   and  myrtle;  terraced  walks   and 

seats 

'Mong  tamarisk  and  citron,  whence  to  gaze 
Down  on  Granada's  rooftops  in  the  haze 
Of  noontide  while  the  swaying  banks  of 

rose 

All  day  make  signal  to  the  mountain  snows. 
Yea,  let  there  be  a  rush  of  waters  cool 
Down  to  Granada  from  each  spring  and 

pool, 
And  mountain  torrent, — waters  that  shall 

speak 
Unto  our  hearts  of  boyhood  streams  that 

seek 
The  Persian   Gulf — like  oldtime  Bende- 

meer, 
Or  Indus  where  our  parching  lips  found 

cheer. 
Throughout  a   hundred  basins  let  them 

flow 

105 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Murmuring  like  kisses  of  the  long-ago; 
Basins  whose  gold-stained  arabesques  of 

stone 
Shall    bear    such    legendries    as — "God 

Alone 
Most-High    hath    Conquest";    fonts    of 

chrysophrase 

Above    whose    Lions,    Cufic   scrolls    em 
blaze  : — 
"Lo,    here    are    waters    copious    as    the 

Nile" 

"Yea,  terrible  in  battle  He  whose  smile 
Hath    lit    these    gardens." — When    their 

floods  have  run 
Through  flowery  labyrinths  of  shade  and 

sun 
And    moss-stained    vase    and    alabaster 

niche, 
From   off   the   summits   let  their  waters 

pitch 
And  foam  through  cypress  gorges  to  the 

town, 

Like  silver  largess  that  I  scatter  down. 
Then  let  the  mountains  gather  round,  and 

lean 

1 06 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Their  brows  of  snow  against  my  groves 

of  green- 
By  day  let  steel-clad  horsemen  ceaseless 

climb 

To  hear  the  mandate  of  their  lord  sub 
lime; 
By  night — the  hint  of  cymbals  like  the 

spray 

Of  moonlight  scattered;  flutes  that  stay 
The  sob  of  nightingales ;  the  silvery  beat 
Half-heard,  half-seen — of  fair  Castilian 

feet. 

Then  rest — then  sleep— I  Ah,  Allah's 

arms  shall  hold 

Place  for  Alahmar  whose  account  is  told; 
Who    prayed, — who    toiled, — who    con 
quered, — and  is  old!" 

II 

IN  THE  BOOTH  OF  THE  STORY-TELLER 

UPON   a   stream   which   from   Alhambra 

down 
Went  tumbling  through  the  alleys  of  the 

town, — 

107 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Ay,  ay  di  mi! — one  listless  noontide  hour 
Young  Azafia  tossed  an  almond  flower, — 
Ay,  ay  di  mi! — the  stars  are  fated  so ! — 
And  swift  a  slave  was  to  the  council  hall 
To  whisper  crafty  Abu-Said  all, 
As  down  the  steeps  of  rock  and  moss  and 

spray 
Below  the  Paupers'  Bridge  they  traced  its 

way, 

Until  along  the  market-place  it  passed 
And    some    poor   hag    reached    out    and 

caught  it  fast. 

When  this  to  Abu-Said's  ear  was  told, 
He  sent  the  pauper  down  his  purse  of  gold. 
Ay,  ay  di  mi! — the  stars  are  fated  so ! — 
Pale  Azafia,  neither  knew  nor  cared, 
Child  of  the  desert,  whither  it  had  fared, 
But  soon  again,  while  lurked  the  slave  to 

see, 
Shook  on  the  stream  a  blossom  from  the 

tree. 

Ay,  ay  di  mi! — the  stars  are  fated  so ! — 
Down  in  Granada's  prison  desolate 
In  chains  they  held  as  prisoner  of  state 
Guzman  De  Lara  who  for  solace  there 
Touched  on  his  lute  some  old  Biscayan  air. 
108 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

He  saw  the  flower,  and  through  the  bars 

he  caught 

And  pressed  it  to  his  lips  in  tender  thought 
Of  youth  and  home. — That  night, — ay,  ay 

di  mi! — 

There  was  the  cry  of  one  in  agony, 
And  on  the  stream  against  his  iron  door 
At  break  of  day  was  seen  the  dripping 

gore. 
Ay,  ay  di  mi! — the  stars  are  fated  so  1 — 

III 
THE  NIGHT  OF  ALMOND  BLOSSOMS 

THE  blossoms  range  their  silver  tents 

At  twilight  down  the  tavern  lane ; 
The  south  wind  strays  to  barter  scents 

Around  no  rose  in  vain. 
And  see,  Beloved,  where  the  sun 

Still  waits  thy  lute's  soft  laughter, 
Although  the  stars  come  one  by  one, 

And  all  the  night  flocks  after. 

And  now  the  mule-bells  die  away, 
Each  cool  posada  claims  a  guest 
109 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Who  folds  his  beast  and  pack  away 

And  gladly  turns  to  rest; 
While,  hark !  without  thy  mocking  gate 

Thine  ivory  castanets  I  hear, 
The  while  thy  master  stealing  late 

Hath  gained  the  pathway  near. 

Ay,  ay  di  mi!  'tis  mine  all  night 

To  guard  thy  moonlit  walls  and  weep, 
Till  dawn's  last  toper  up  the  white 

Alhambra  reels  to  sleep; 
Then  from  Granada  shall  I  ha-ste 

With  spurs  that  bleed  at  every  thrust, 
Till  mad  at  noontide  in  the  desert's  waste 

I  swoon  amid  the  dust ! 


IV 

ZORAYA 

THERE  came  by  night  a  northern  cavalier 
Beneath  her  terrace  when  the  moon  was 

young, 

And  she,  the  fond  Sultana,  bent  to  hear 
A  serenade  no  Moslem  youth  had  sung. 
1 10 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

She  stirred — but  at  her  lips  the  Sultan 

yearned 
And  half-asleep   entwined  her  fingers 

tight. 

Till  soon  where  down  the  gorge  the  path 
way  turned 

She  heard  the  horseman  pass  into  the 
night. 

There  came  by  night  though  moons  waxed 

bleak  and  old 

No  other  voice  to  sing  like  his  again; 
The  fountains  splashed  through  marbles 

stained  with  gold; 

Till  dawn   she  heard  the   nightingale 
complain. 

But  day  by  day  adown  her  mirador 

She  watched  the  mountain  flocks  and 
herdsmen  pass; 

Smiling  she  fed  her  parrot  o'er  and  o'er, — 
But  ah,  who  taught  it  thus  to  sigh,  Alas  ? 


in 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

V 

THE  MARKET  PLACE 

THERE  strode  a  Bedouin  through  the  mar 
ket  place 

A  frown  like  some  archangel's  on  his  face; 
And  as  each  merchant  spread  his  richest 
ware, 

His  silver  woofs  and  gold,  his  jewelled 

lace, 

His  gems  of  Samarkand,  his  perfumes 
rare, — 

He  cast  them  off: — "Unworthy  glance  of 
mine — 

All  these  she  hath,  nor  doth  she  cease  to 
pine!" 

Then  whispered  him  his  slave-boy  from 

Cashmere : — 
"Master  of  life,  thou  hast  seen  all  things 

here, 
Yet  since  no  trinket,  pearl,  nor  vesture 

seems 

Of  worth  for  her  whom  thou  dost  hold  so 
dear, — 

112 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

I  know  hard-by  a  little  booth  of  dreams 
Wherein  a  gentle  scribe  of  Persia  writes 
Such  fond  ghazals  as  bring  the  heart  de 
lights." 

In  vain  were  gilt  and  santal'd  case  un 
rolled 

"Songs  like  to  these  she  hath  in  heaps  un 
told; 

What  ho!  some  witch,  some  scholar  of 
the  East, 

With  spells  for  sale  for  good  Tunisian 

gold  I" 

Then  at  his  cloak  plucked  Ishmael  the 
priest, 

And  whispered, — "Lay  beneath  her  feet 
thy  pride; 

'Tis  with  the  meek  of  heart  that  love  and 
Allah  bide." 


VI 
THE  CARAVAN 

DAWN  o'er  the  mountain  is  shaking 
The  day  in  a  petalled  shower; 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

Hark,  the  Granada  is  waking 
Under  Alhambra's  tower! 

Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, — 
The  muezzin  calls  the  hour ! 


Why  should  we  linger  while  roses 
And  tangerines  blossom  and  fade, 

Yet  never  her  gate  uncloses? 

Too  long  are  my  hopes  betrayed, — 

Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, 
My  heart's  last  plea  is  made ! 

She  only  of  all  in  Granada 

Is  careless  that  we  part; 
See,  round  each  grey  posada 

Friend  clasps  friend  to  his  heart; 
Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, 

Our  caravan  must  start. 

Home  where  the  roses  of  Tunis, 
The  lilies  of  Yemen,  are  fair; 

O'er  the  sea  where  the  silver  moon  is 
Blanched  on  our  white  walls  there,— 

Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, 
To  the  golden  domes  of  prayer. 
.114 


ALHAMBRA  SONGS 

To  Oran  by  the  coast, — to  the  cities 
That  jewel  the  desert  sands, 

Where  night  shall  be  filled  with  pities — 
Dawn  hold  peace  in  its  hands, — 

Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, 
Let  us  home  to  our  boyhood's  lands. 

Steed  of  my  soul, — art  thou  neighing 
At  scent  of  the  sea  ? — All  in  vain, 

Comrades,  I  keep  you  delaying, — 
Part  we  here, — say  farewell  once 
again, — 

Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, — 
Let  me  turn  back  to  her,  and  remain  1 

Seek  ye  the  haunts  that  we  cherished, 
Where  day  hath  the  burnish  of  gold, 

But  forget  not,  alas,  how  I  perished, 
And  at  times  let  my  story  be  told, — 

Up  and  away,  O  comrades  mine, 
Where  the  desert  tents  unfold. 


SUNDOWN 

As  the  rose  of  the  day  lies  dying 

With  its  petals  strewn  over  the  sea, 
A  sail  floats  down  from  the  low-eaved  town 

And  the  salt,  green  stretch  of  the  lea ; 
While  the  breeze  like  a  lover  sighing 

Steals  after  its  silvery  crest, 
And  the  sun  delays  with  his  tenderest  rays 

In  a  last  caress  on  its  breast. 

Then  flutters  out  from  the  gloaming 

Where  the  lamps  on  the  shore  awake 
A    butterfly    caught    with    the    amorous 

thought 

That  the  sail  could  be  fond  for  its  sake. 

Thus  in  vain  were  the  lights  of  the  homing 

When  our  hearts  made  their  voyage  of 

tears, 

Where  the  white  wings  call  and  the  rose- 
leaves  fall 

On  the  stream  of  the  vanished  years. 
116 


THE  CHARIOTEER'S  GRAVE 

IN  Tarragona  where  the  waves 
Break  on  a  harbour  of  imperial  graves 
Within  the  archaic  Palace  stands 
A  figure  carved,  the  palm-branch  in  its 

hands, 
And  this  inscription  scrolled  around: 

"VICTIM  OF  FEVER ;  I  AM  IN  THE  GROUND ; 
QUINTUS  THE  VICTOR  CHARIOTEER; 
WOULD  I  HAD  DIED  WITHIN  THE  CIRCUS 
CHEER." 


AFTER  RAINFALL 

THE  thrush  starts  singing  down  the  road 
Between  the  orchard  and  the  shore, 

Rejoicing  from  his  green  abode 
That  now  the  rain  at  last  is  o'er. 

Upon  a  rock  he  marks  me  pass, 

Shrugging  his  feathers  free  of  dew, 

Then  darts  into  the  shining  grass 
And  plucks  a  dainty  worm  in  view. 

Then  he  and  I  forget  the  storm 
That  held  us  prisoners  so  long; 

He  gloating  on  his  captured  worm, 
I  jotting  down  this  laughing  song. 


118 


PASTORALE  AFTER 
MENDELSSOHN 

PIPE,  mellow  reed,  once  more  the  ancient 

plaint 
Wherewith  the  close-cropped  slopes  of 

Arcady 
Were  resonant;  pipe  the  sweet  airs  and 

faint 

That  lovers'  griefs  have  taught  you,  now 
for  me. 

The    moist-eyed    stars    arch    'round    me 

questioning 
What  lovely  stripling  now  has  come  to 

sighs ; 
But  you,  dark  mists,  close  o'er  me  as  I 

sing 

Lest  they  my  humble   shepherd  mien 
despise. 

Would'st  thou  behold  still  other  lovers' 

tears, 

Red  moon,  arising  on  the  cloudy  plain? 
119 


AFTER  MENDELSSOHN 

What  note  of  mine  can  please  thy  careless 

ears 

That  heard  the  sweet  complaints  of  gods 
in  vain! 

My  heavy  fingers  stumble  on  the  reed, — 
My  voice  can  barely  rise  a  sigh  above; 

'Tis  not  the  singer's  wreath  for  which  I 

plead, 
O  cruel  night,  take  pity,  'tis  for  love  I 


120 


STABAT  MATER  SPECIOSA 

From  the   Thirteenth  Century  Latin,  as- 
scribed  to  Jacopone  da  Todi 

STOOD  the  lovely  Mother  smiling 
By  the  Manger  where  beguiling 

Lay  her  little  one  at  rest; 
All  her  soul  its  gladness  voicing; 
As  the  gleam  of  her  rejoicing 

Swept  across  her  gentle  breast. 

O  how  joyous  she,  The  Blessed 
And  Immaculate,  caressed 

Him  that  was  her  only  Son  I 
How  her  heart  exulted  for  Him — 
How  she  bent  enraptured  o'er  Him, 

Born  of  her,  The  Holy  One  I 

Who  is  there  that  contemplating 
Christ's  own  Mother  jubilating 

Would  not  share  in  such  a  joy? 
Who  beholding  could  be  other 
121 


STABAT  MATER  SPECIOSA 

Than  entranced  with  Christ's  own  Mother 
Fondling  her  Immortal  Boy. 

Through  the  sins  of  man,  His  creatures, 
She  beholds  the  Christ-Child's  features 

'Mid  the  breathing  kine  and  cold; 
Sees  her  darling  born  deploring; 
And  the  place  of  His  adoring 

But  a  miserable  fold. 

"Born  is  Christ  within  a  stable!" 
Hark,  the  joy  immensurable — 

Heaven's  townfolk  sing  around! 
There  anear  the  Maid  the  Elder 
Stood  in  silence  and  beheld  her, 

Wondering  with  her  at  the  sound. 

Would,  O  Mother, — Love-Fount  tender! 
Thou  to  me  wouldst  ardour  render 

So  my  breast  might  glow  as  thine ! 
Till  my  heart  for  love  inflaming 
Might  be  also  made  unblaming 

For  His  gentle  head  divine. 

Blessed  Mother — thou  art  playing 
Just  as  though  no  wounds  are  staying 
122 


STABAT  MATER  SPECIOSA 

To  be  fixed  upon  thy  heart; 
Of  thy  Son  the  heaven-descended 
To  the  Manger  unattended — 

Of  His  sorrows,  grant  me  part! 

Grant  me  all  my  life's  full  measure 
Jesukin  that  I  may  treasure 

Gladly  on  my  breast  to  strain: 
Fervor  like  to  thine  to  fill  me, 
Grant  thine  Infant's  arms  to  thrill  me 

Whilst  in  exile  I  remain  I 

Virgin  of  all  Virgins  Fairest, — 
Nay,  withhold  not  Him  thou  bearest, 

Let  thy  Babe  of  Paradise 
By  my  arms  be  soft  surrounded — 
Him, — whose    birth    hath     Death    con 
founded 

At  the  Final  Sacrifice  1 

Grant,  as  thine,  to  slake  my  yearning, 
With  thy  Child  in  rapture  turning 

In  the  joyous  surge  of  grace; 
All  inflamed  and  love-enkindled — 
Every  mortal  impulse  dwindled — 

Let  me  share  in  such  embrace. 
123 


STABAT  MATER  SPECIOSA 

Hark  ye, — all  ye  Manger  lovers, 
Shepherds  leave  your  watchful  covers — 

Join  the  Voices  of  the  Night  I 
He  in  taking  birth  hath  heard  you; 
Chant,  and,  with  His  Chosen,  gird  you 

For  the  Fatherland  of  Light! 

When  thy  Son  hath  ta'en  and  healed  me, 
And  the  Word  of  God  doth  shield  me, 

Grant  I  be  confirmed  in  Grace ! 
When  the  body's  life  is  ended, 
Be  my  soul  by  thee  attended 

To  the  Vision  of  His  Face  I 


124 


CASTLES 

A  LONELY  soul  in  every  breast 

Where  wastes  of  humankind  unrolled; 

A  castle  set  on  every  crest 

With  moat  and  battlement  of  old. 

And   word   came    forth    from   the   new- 
crowned  King: — 

"Cast  down  your  walls — your  feuds  re 
sign; 

My  peace  to  all  the  realm  I  bring, 
For  I  am  Love,  and  ye  are  Mine." 

But  some  within  their  donjons  sate 

And  forged  the  arms  their  fathers  bore, 

The  pride,  the  greed,  the  craft,  the  hate, — 
As  though  they  still  might  thrive  by  war. 


125 


THE  ATONEMENT  OF  FERO- 
DACH  THE  KING 

From  "The  Penances  of  Colum" 

HIGH  in  his  crystal-lighted  grianan 
King  Ferodach  lay  dying;  round  the  couch 
To  glad  him  they  had  piled  his  glittering 

hoard 
Of    mighty    weapons    forged    for    other 

hands, 

Of  crusted  crowns,  of  torques  and  amu 
lets, 
Goblets  and  brooches.  Ah,  for  their  bright 

sake 
How  many  a  province  had  he  razed  and 

burnt  I 
How  many  a  burgh  and  dun  bedrenched  in 

blood!— 

But  hark,  amid  his  very  death-throes  came 
His  sons   all  breathless   crying,   "Away! 

Away  I 

126 


ATONEMENT  OF  FERODACH 

Our  foes,  Clan  Connla  come !    Away  with 

all 

The  treasure  chests,  and  cheat  their  hun 
gry  grasp!" 
Then  groaned  the   king:   "Stir  not  this 

leprous  gold; 

Too  many  a  noble  house  has  wailed  for  it. 
Stiff  in  their  mounds  are  they  who  bore 

these  shields, 
And  moved  these  golden  chessmen  on  the 

board. 
See,  on  yon  voiceless  harps  the  strings  hang 

loose 
Where  once  their  soulful  fingers  joyed  to 

glide ! 
These    goblets,    emptied    of   their    royal 

draught 
Poured  for  the  sons  of  song!     Unfed,  un- 

warmed, 

The  cleric  left  my  door, — yea,  see,  to-night 
No  poor  man  comes  to  weep  or  pray  for 

me! 
So  get  ye   gone   and   leave   me   here   to 

God !— " 

They  left  him  with  the  gold  upon  his  brow, 
127 


ATONEMENT  OF  FERODACH 

His  sword  beside  him,  his  great  shield  of 

bronze 
Laid  down  his  breast.    The  light  of  cresset 

lamps 
Played  through  the  jewels  on  his  ashen 

hands, 
And   from   the   polished   vessels   heaped 

around 

Gleamed  back  a  thousand  eyes  mysterious. 
There  all  night  long  he  cried  to  God, — 

"Thy  scourge 

Is  grievous,  but  Thy  law  is  just !     Behold, 
Lest  Thou  exact  my  ransom  past  the  grave, 
Behold,  I  render  up  my  spoils  of  blood, 
Beseeching  Thy  great  mercy ! — " 

Soon  the  light 

Of  a  grey  eye  looked  over  Ossory, — 
It  was  the  morn,  and  at  the  sunrise  came 
Clan  Connla's  henchmen,  and  hacked  off 
his  head. 

For  Lloyd  R.  Morris 


128 


TO  A  YOUNG  POET 

THERE  are  two  portals  set  before  thy 

heart, 

O  poet  yet  uncrowned, — 
One  reared  in  radiant  noon,  the  other 

bound 
In  rust  and  gloom  apart. 

Round  one,  with  sway  of  civic  chant  and 

chime 

Wind  throngs  of  youths  and  maids 
With  garlands  through  the  soaring  col 
onnades 
In  Druid  rite  sublime. 

The  lictors  pass,  the  harvest  hymns  are 

sung, 

High  flame  the  hero  pyres, 
While  hands  prophetic  sweep  the  sacred 

lyres 

Of  hope  forever  young. 
129 


TO  A  YOUNG  POET 

But  where  the  other  postern  lurks  below 

Amid  the  briar  and  weed, 

White  bones  lay  strewn  and  venomed 

monsters  feed 
Beneath  the  marshlamp's  glow. 

There  stealthy  murmurs,  cheeks  like  snow 
drift,  call 

Thy  fevered  senses  out, — 
Far  pulse  of  dancing  feet  and  satyr 

shout, 
Vague  breasts  that  heave  and  fall. 

There  madness  waits, — O  heart,  thy  mis 
sion  own 

Among  the  sons  of  day! 
Forth  with  the  throngs  upon  the  sunlit 

way, — 
Walk  not  the  fens  alone  I 


130 


A  GRANNY 

THE  cross  her  withered  fingers  hold 
Within  the  coffin  is  not  gold, 
But  since  she  pressed  it  day  and  night 
Against  her  lips  'twas  burnished  bright; 
Until  the  imaged  Crucified 
Took  her  soft  whisper  as  she  died. 
Now  as  she  lies  there  all  her  years 
So  filled  with  failures,  and  with  tears 
Grow  half  unreal;  all  her  prayers, 
The  simple  solace  of  her  cares, 
Yet  on  her  lips;  her  mother-love 
Surrendered  only  for  a  Heart  Above. 
Outside  is  spring  with  the  song  of  bird 
Between  the  vendors'  outcries  heard; 
For  town  with  country-side  competes 
Along  the  old-time  suburb's  street, 
Where  many  a  recent  dweller  eyes 
The  dusty  coaches  with  surprise. 
Then,  while  the  quavering  organ  plays 
Its  solemn  chant  of  ancient  days, 


A  GRANNY 

Fresh  from  the  parish  school,  the  choir 
Of  children  lisp  Death's  office  dire; 
And  the  sly,  tousled,  altar-boys 
Use  the  big  book  and  bell  like  toys. 
Thus,  candles  flickering  o'er  her  head, 
Her  hurried  Requiem  is  said; 
And  Dies  Irae  sung  once  more. 
They  take  her  out  the  narrow  door; 
The  few  old  neighbours  kneel  around, 
Then  leave  her  in  the  blessed  ground. — 
How  few  that  artless  life  bemoan 
Which  erred  in  tenderness  alone ! 
Long  was  its  humble  course  of  pain 
Through  prayers,  and  tears,  and  prayers 

again, 

Until  her  seared  and  whitened  head 
Felt  the  Great  Dawning  without  dread. 
O  Love  Eternal, — stand'st  thou  too  apart? 
Here  was  Thy  meek,  Thy  trusting,  stain 
less  heart. 


132 


BALLADE  FOR  THE  SIXTH 
HOUR 

GOOD  masters  of  the  market-place, 

I  pray  you  cease  your  cries,  and  hear 
The  pilgrim  messages  of  grace 

From  holy  lands  I  bring  your  ear! 

Nay,  pass  not  so,  fair  cavalier, 
Nor  thou,  my  lady,  in  thy  pride, — 

No  alms  I  ask  beyond  a  tear — 
For  such  as  you  my  Saviour  died. 

Yea,  pause  and  hear  me,  woman  frail, 
Whose  jewels  have  the  gleam  of  shame; 

For  thee,  thou  crone  in  rags,  my  tale, — 
For  thee,  thou  foundling  without  name, 
For  you   as   well,   proud  priests,   the 
same — 

Yea,  clown  and  courtier,  ere  ye  ride, 
Draw  rein  and  answer,  was  it  blame 

For  such  as  you  my  Saviour  died? 

Nay,  tears  before  the  minster  gate, 
Ye  blind,  ye  aged,  and  ye  sore  ? — 
133 


BALLADE  FOR  THE  SIXTH  HOUR 

Up ! — 'tis  your  festival  of  state, 
So  get  ye  in  the  sacred  door, 
And  raise'  the  cry  until  it  roar 

By  every  strand  and  mountain  side, 
From  turret  peak  to  dungeon's  core, — 

For  such  as  you  my  Saviour  died ! 

Prince, — from  thy  galleries  look  down 
Upon  our  soiled  and  ribald  tide, 

And  hear  me — spite  thy  haughty 

frown — 
For  such  as  you  my  Saviour  died. 


134 


ROUGH  is  your  coat  and  sharp  the  bite  and 

bark 

Your  giant  jaws  can  give  in  an  alarm; 
Swift  as  you  are  to  rush  into  the  fight, 
Your  heart  is  swifter  to  be  soft  and 
warm. 

There  are  about  you  sensitive  soft  ways 
As  of  the  ancient  heroes  of  the  Gael; 

Your  eye  is  melting  kind  or  all  ablaze ; 
You  have  been  never  known  to  blench 
or  quail. 

Just  as  the  tenderness  some  gruff  old  friend 
Will  stealthy  show  us,  you  are  dear  in 
deed; 

Faithful  and  rough  and  Irish  to  the  end 
In  answer  to  our  call  and  every  need. 


135 


APRIL  TWENTY-THIRD 

DEATH  sallied  forth  upon  this  fateful  day 
Through  Spain  and  England  for  a  mighty 

prey, 

And  struck  two  masters  with  a  single  blow 
And  laid  Cervantes  and  Will  Shakespeare 

low! 

Two  Captains  in  the  very  front  of  Fame, 
A  valiant  pair  without  a  touch  of  shame, 
They  laid  them  down  contented  both  to  go, 
Leaving  behind  the  life  all  letters  know : — 
Don  Quixote's  dreams  and  follies  for  the 

wise, — 

Hamlet  and  Lear  and  many  another  prize 
For  thoughtful  youth  and  unforgetting  age 
Ranged    at    the    footlights    of    a    magic 

stage. — 
But  when  the  two  great  master-ghosts  did 

hark 
Together  on  the  shore  where   Charon's 

bark 

136 


APRIL  TWENTY-THIRD 

Came   feebly   plashing   for   so   grand   a 

freight, 

Cervantes  sweeping  a  salute  of  state 
Said,  "Here  must  you  precede  me,  Master 

Will!" 
And  Shakespeare  bowed:  "You  are  Don 

Quixote  still." 


137 


QUIS  DESIDERIO 

DARK  and  vast  are  Thine  outer  walls, 

O  King  of  Light ! 

Weary  the  desert,  lo,  the  parched  wind 
crawls 

Toward  the  pools  of  night. 
Over  Thy  close  there  is  music  stealing. 

Is  it  Thy  revel,  Lord,  or  the  calls 
Of  my  childhood's  dreaming?     Is  it  the 
pealing 

Of  angel  spires,  or  the  fever's  blight? 

Some  rose  immortal  there  must  bloom 

By  fountains  clear, 
That  waves  of  such  ineffable  perfume 

Should  reach  me  here ! 
Cool  on  my  brows  I  feel  their  sprinkle, 

Here  in  the  dusk  of  my  outer  gloom 
Where  the  stars  themselves  seem  drops 
that  twinkle 

In  truant  spray  o'er  the  sky  wastes  sheer. 
138 


QUIS  DESIDERIO 

Their  hyssop  melts  through  my  soul.    Per 
chance 

She  scatters  there 
Some    old   love-sign,    some    token, — she, 

whose  glance 

Makes  consecrate  and  rare 
Life's  dawns  and  twilights, — whose  worn 

hands  inploring 
Are  constant  raised  'mid   all   Thy  joys' 

expanse 

For  me  remembered  still  in  her  adoring, — 
She  of  the  silvered,  even-parted  hair  I 


139 


QUATRAINS 

THE  MESSAGE 

THE  North  wind  came  and  to  the  Maples 

said, 

"My  soul  takes  pity  on  the  Butterfly; 
So  do  you,  shrouded  in  her  gold  and  red, 
O  Maples,  warn  her  that  she  too  must 
die." 

LARGESS 

Up  to  his  mosque,  lo,  Time  the  Sultan 

passed 
Between  the  beggar  Months  around  the 

gate, 

And  in  October's  lap  superbly  cast 
His  golden  largess  and  went  in  elate. 

THE  SILVER-BIRCH 

I  heard  throughout  the  woods'  seraglio 
The   Sultan  Autumn's  widows  tell  their 
woe; 

140 


QUATRAINS 

And  saw  the  Frost-King  enter  in  his  pride 
And   choose   the   Silver-Birch   alone   for 
bride. 

ON  JAPANESE  PAPER 

The  while  afar  some  ancient  crows  intone 
Their   incantations    'mid   the    marshes 

blight, 

A  spectre  moon  steals  up  the  void  alone 
With  but  one  star  to  prove  that  it  is 
night. 

THE  ANGEL  AT  THE  TOMB 

Within  his  eyes  the  glory  lingering  clear 
Dims  all  his  vesture's  snowy  glistening; 

Voice  of  the  lily  cry,  "He  is  not  here 
But  risen !"  and  let  the  rose-mouths  lisp 
of  Spring  I 


141 


MOTHER  MOST  POWERFUL 
After  Giovanni  Dominici,  1356-1420 

THAT  thou  so  often  held  Him  in  thine 

arms, — 

So  often  pressed  His  infant  lips  to  thine, 
And  in  thy  bosom  warded  off  the  harms 
That  came  with  flesh  e'en  to  the  Child 

Divine ; 
That  thou  couldst  clothe  Him, — feel  Him 

cheek  to  cheek 
In  dreams  and  waking, — at  thine  ear 

hast  known 
His  first  lisped,  "Mother," — watched  His 

soft  hands  seek 
Thine  aid — with  glances  cast  on  thee 

alone ; — 

That  thou  couldst  know  such  countless  ec 
stasies. 

Of  love  through  that  sweet  hidden  time 
of  yore — 

142 


MOTHER  MOST  POWERFUL 

And  yet  thy  heart  held  strong  through  all 

of  these — 

Shows  thou  wert  mortal, — Mother, — 
yea,  and  more! 


143 


THE  EMBERS  SPEAK 

I  WAS  the  acorn  that  fell 

From  the  autumn  bough 

In  the  warm  earth  to  dwell; 

I  grew  to  a  branch  somehow 

And  I  waved  in  the  nightly  storm 

And  sheltered  the  kine 

When  the  hills  were  yellow  and  warm 

With  the  noon  divine 

I  too  'mid  the  sheathing  moss 

Felt  the  axe's  blow 

And  fell  with  a  thunderous  loss 

Of  the  stars  I  know 

And  the  clouds  that  sift  no  more 

Through  my  shattered  limbs, 

Save  where  the  hearthstones  roar 

And  the  dying  ember  dims. 


144 


FRIAR  LAURENCE  O'FARRELL.— 
LONGFORD,  1651 

THE  van  of  Ireton's  troops  at  morning 
broke 

On  Longford  Town,  swept  up  the  sluggard 
few 

That  had  not  fled,  and  hemmed  the  Abbey 
round, 

Dragging  two  Preachers  from  the  altar- 
side — 

Friar  Bernard  whom  they  hacked  unto  his 
death, 

And  Friar  Laurence  whom  they  haled  be 
fore 

Their  chief  upon  his  entry  to  the  Town. 

"So  here  you  are,  O'Farrell,"  Ireton 
cried, — 

Caught  like  a  wild  thing  on  your  native 
plains, — 

You  whom  they  speak  in  wonder  of  at 
Rome 

And  Salamanca,  you  their  man  of  strength 

145 


FRIAR  LAURENCE  O'FARRELL 

When   Catholic  Armies  gathered  in  the 

land!" 
And  Friar  Laurence  answered,  "Lo,  the 

Lord 

Hath  given  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away  I 
But  you,  my  Colonel,  have  the  courtesy 
Not  to  prolong  my  torments.    Send  me  on 
To  join  my  brothers  in  the  better  world." 
"Nay,  not  too  fast,  young  friar;  we  shall 

hear 

Some  of  your  reasons  and  philosophies 
Before  you  leave  us.  Godly  men  as  we 
Should  join  in  converse,  and  who  knows, 

in  prayer — 
Ere  you  can  claim  your  martyr-crown  of 

us." 
Thus  for  three  days  they  held  him,  while 

the  smoke 

And  rapine  spread  around  the  plains  afar, 
And  treason  played  its  game  of  blood,  till 

word 
Was  brought  O'Farrell  that  his  lurking 

kin 

Among  the  hillocks  looked  with  very  dread 
In  one  another's  eyes,  hearing  a  friar 
Of  Longford  was  so  safe  in  Ireton's  tents. 
146 


FRIAR  LAURENCE  O'FARRELL 

What  dread  apostacy  was  here?  they 

asked. 

Then  he  that  held  the  weary  officers 
Half-subject    to    the    grace    his    person 

breathed, 

Attent  upon  his  words  of  argument, 
Sudden  put  off   the   charm   and   crudely 

urged 

His  points  until  at  last  indignantly 
They  led  him  forth  amid  the  silent  troops 
To  execution.    On  the  ladder  steps 
He  stood  and  saw  his  ancient  flock 

assembled, 

And  bidding  them  farewell,  his  rosary 
Around  his  neck,  his  cross  within  his  hands, 
He  signed  the  executioner  to  act. 
Then  as  his  body  swung  upon  the  air 
The  onlookers  in  their  amazement  saw 
The  crucifix  he  held  upraised  above 
His  head  in  triumph  and  in  blessing 

there. — 

In  the  great  silence  that  ensued  they  took 
The  body  down,   and  with  safe-conduct 

granted 
By  Ireton  gave  it  formal  burial 

147 


IN  A  GARDEN  OF  GRANADA 

THE  city  rumour  rises  all  the  day 

Across  the  potted  plants  along  the  wall; 
The  sun  and  winds  upon  the  slopes  hold 

sway, 

Tossing  the   dust   and   shadows   in   a 
squall. 

The  sun  is  old  and  weary — weary  here 
Upon  the  ageing  roofs  and  miradors, 

The  broken  terraces  and  basins  drear 
Where  each  old  bell  its  ancient  echoes 
pours. 

Ringing — what     memories     to     ring — to 

those 
That  linger  here — the  lizard  and  the 

cat, 

That  haunt  these  solitudes  in  state  morose 
Through  the  long  day  their  silent  habi 
tat. 

Untroubled, — save  when  in  the  moonlight 
steals 

148 


IN  A  GARDEN  OF  GRANADA 

Some  voice  in  song  across  the  lower 

wall, 

And  sudden  magic  each  old  rafter  feels, 
The  while  the  echoes  round  it  rise  and 
fall. 

For  as  the  wail  of  love  or  sorrow  rings 
Along  the  night  soft  steps  are  on  the 

stair 
And    pathway;    in    the    broken    window 

wings 

Are  stirring,  and  white  arms  are  lolling 
there. 

And  that  old  rose  tree  lifts  its  head  anew, 
And  there  is  perfume  o'er  the  hills  afar, 

From  where  Alhambra's  crescent  cleaves 

the  blue 
To  where  agleam  Genii  and  Darro  are. 

O  Voice! — what  is  thy  necromantic  word 
That    all    Granada    waits    adown    the 

years? 
Is  it  the  sound  some  love-swept  night  has 

heard? — 
The  cry  of  love  amid  the  cry  of  tears? — 

For  Jose  Maria  Restrepo  Millan. 
149 


ZAPHNA  OF  BATUSHKOFF 

After  the  Russian 

THE  storm  is  over;  from  the  rifting  blue 
The   sun  appears   beyond  the  western 

field 
Where  now  the  freshet  breaks  its  channel 

through 

Exulting  wildly.    See,  a  rose  would  yield 
Her  tribute  to  thy  hand,  dear  Zaphna ;  and 

see 
How  from  the  rock  beneath  the  palm 

tree  there 
The  white  cascade  is  hurried  noisily 

Within  the  grove  with  dash  of  foam  and 

blare. 
Thy  presence,  Zaphna,  seems  to  light  the 

glen; 
Sweet  hast  thou  sung  the  songs  of  love 

to  me 

Over  and  over  and  the  breeze  again 
150 


ZAPHNA  OF  BATUSHKOFF 

Borne  them  on  gentle  pinions  far  from 

thee. 
Thy  voice,  beloved,   like  the  breath  of 

morn 
Sounds  through  the  blossoms  glistening 

everywhere ; 

Ah,  turbid  stream,  cease  now  thy  clamour 
ous  scorn 
As  on  thou  sweepst  with  dashing  foam 

and  blare! 

Zaphna,  thou  blushest? — Ah,  sweet  inno 
cence, 
Come  press  to  mine  those  lips  of  coral 

rare; 

And  thou  lone  streamlet,  guard  our  confi 
dence 
As  on  thou  sweepst  with  dashing  foam 

and  blare. 
Look  now,  fair  Zaphna,  where  afloat  upon 

The  tide  a  rosemary  is  borne  away; 
On  glides  the  current, — soon  the  flower  is 

gone, — 
My  own,  and  think'st  thou  Time  less 

swift  than  they? 

Ah,  though  to-day  yon  ring-doves  passion 
ate 


ZAPHNA  OF  BATUSHKOFF 

Gaze  down  on  us  in  envy,  Time  will  bear 
Youth  and  its  charm  away  and — deso 
late — 

The  stream  will  sweep  no  more  with 
foam  and  blare. 


152 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  KINGS 

THE  chieftains  and  druids  of  Uladh  would 
clothe  him  in  samite  and  gold 

And  set  him  on  high  at  the  feastings  when 
sagas  of  kings  would  be  told, — 

The  battles,  and  courtships,  and  forays, — 
the  boast  of  their  fathers  of  old. 

Till  one  night  as  they  crouched  by  their 
targes  ere  dawn  lit  the  spears  on  the 
plain 

They  called  for  Donn-Bo :  "Let  the  watch 
ing  of  kings  be  made  glad  with  his 
strain  1" 

And  he  came  o'er  the  armies  of  Uladh 
with  blessings  and  love  in  his  train. 

But  he  pleaded, — "High-King  of  Emana, 
a  boon  for  thy  minstrel,  a  boon, — 

Grant  but  silence  to-night  ere  the  battle, — 
be  glad  with  thy  hounds  and  buffoon, 

And  to-morrow  Donn-Bo  shall  proclaim 
thee  with  music  at  rise  of  the  moon." 

153 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE   KINGS 

They  quaffed  the  red  mead  till  the  chariots 

at  dawn  over  Uladh  were  hurled; 
With   the    nightfall   they   gathered    afar 

where  the  shreds  of  their  war-cloaks 

were  furled ; 
And  they  pined  for  Donn-Bo,  but  he  came 

not,  though  moonlight  was  white  on 

the  world. 

Clenched  deep  in  his  wounds  was  each  fe 
tish,  the  druid's  enchantment  was 
long: — 

"O  kings  that  were  once  over  Uladh, — ye 
breasts  that  heaved  haughty  and 
strong ! — 

At  dawn  to  the  grasp  of  the  hireling  goes 
the  beauty  of  life  and  the  song!" 

Then  arose  the  rough  Chief  of  Clan  Conn- 
la:  "Never  yet  hath  the  lad  spoken 
lie, — 

I  shall  forth  through  the  marches  and 
seek  him!" — Yea,  there,  out  afar  lay 
awry — 

A  white  corpse  by  the  King  of  Emafia — 
Donn-Bo,  like  a  star  from  the  sky. 
154 


THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  KINGS 

And  around  them  the  winds  made  the  mu 
sic  they  took  from  his  harp-strings  of 
yore, — 

Unhushed,  though  the  hand  of  Clan  Conn- 
la  snatched  the  fair,  severed  head 
from  the  gore, 

As  it  moaned,  "Stir  me  not  till  the  dawn 
ing  when  the  rime  for  my  king  will  be 
o'er  I" 

But  Clan  Connla  made  answer: — "The 

war-chiefs  of  Uladh  are  waiting  their 

share." 
And  bearing  it  off  by  the  tresses,  he  bade 

it  to  chant  for  them  there 
In  the  light  of  the  torches,  set  high  on  a 

pillar,  its  rann  of  despair. 

O  never  such  story  and  music  shall  come 
from  the  minstrels  of  men, 

As  the  mouth  of  Donn-Bo  the  beloved  gave 
forth  in  its  wizardry  then ! — 

Never  shall  chieftains  and  druids  sit  round 
at  such  feasting  again  I 


155 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


5- 1850 


FormL9 — 15m-10,'48(B1039)444 


CALIFORNIA 
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Illl  Illll  III- 

A    001  247  838    4 


PS 

3545 

VU74g 


.JOHN 


